Mutations
by Monti
Summary: Sam's solo, Dean's disabled, and John's jumpy. Preseries, Complete. One had to be a lie, the duality of both together was unsustainable without something giving, mutating but to find the truth? To choose the truth?
1. Dead Melodies

_The beginning of John and Sam's falling out. Sam's first hunt. Lots of warm childhood memories for our boys. My first story, first chapter, please read and review.  
_

_ Many thanks to Kripke and company for thinking up this wonderful universe, and letting us in._

_ Love to Noodles for the proofreading.  
_

Midnight.

The small town slept fitfully under a hazy blanket of late July heat, its once green parks and trees dry and shriveled. Its streets were empty, deserted, with shadows that moved uneasily in the corner of the eye. The air hummed with heat and tension, broken occasionally by the far-off bark of a dog. Flyers stapled to telephone poles and taped to storefront window were curled with heat, their desperate words unheeded. The sound of a siren cycled lazily up through the night, far away and unimportant.

Movement. The steady hum of an engine. Blackness drifting through blackness. An old time Chevy Impala moved gracefully through the streets, its headlights cutting through the darkness, throwing the town's suffering into sharp relief. Empty parks, dead trees, littered sidewalks.

Three passengers inside, the father driving, his eyes weary, his face exhausted. In the shotgun seat his oldest son slept, bruises vivid against his face, tape over his nose, one arm curled around his chest. In the backseat his youngest son peered out into the darkness through a thatch of hair, watching the faded streets go by. The Impala passed a telephone pole patched with yellow and white flyers.

"Another one." said Sam in the backseat, trying to puzzle out the words on the flyer. All that could be seen as the grainy picture of child, smiling into the blackness.

"Yes." answered his father, John, his glance flicking from the pole and back to the rearview mirror at his son's reflection.

They were quiet as John guided the Impala slowly through the town, peering at the darkened houses, trying to find the address written on the torn piece of newspaper in his hand. He cursed suddenly, his foot hard on the brake as a pack of five or six dogs abruptly appeared in the street in front of him. Parent's instinct made him throw out an arm to stop his son's forward motion in the seat next to him, and Dean, the oldest, grunted as he was jostled against his father's arm. John was sure he was going to hit the pack, but somehow the dogs melted around the Impala's form as it nosed through them, and disappeared into the shadows at the street's edge. "For God's sake," John said wonderingly, as he looked around trying to find the pack.

"Where'd they go?" Sam again, rolling down the back window of the Impala and sticking his head out into the heavy night air. There was an odd smell, a mixture of musk and sage and cut grass. Sam sniffed at it, puzzled.

"What happened?" Dean said, carefully rubbing his face around the bruises, trying to wake up from a smothering sleep. His words were slurred, his movements cautious as he shifted to find a more comfortable spot. Hints of white bandages appeared at the neck of his t-shirt, at the small of his back where his t-shirt had pulled away from his body.

"Nothing," his father said, glancing at his son's drawn face. "Just a bunch of dogs." He shifted, found the gas, the Impala moved forward. "Roll the window up, Sam."

"Yes, sir," came the quick response, but the window went up slowly. Sam twisted to look out the rear window as the Impala moved away. In the shadows, he thought he saw someone standing, its form curved like a woman's, and at her feet was the shine of a dog's eyes. Sam felt the form meet his gaze, and the 15 year old slowly slid down the seat until she was hidden from his line of sight. He shivered, and the Impala turned the corner.

The landlord had left the porch light on in a gesture of kindness, its dim light all but crushed under the heaviness of the night air. The house was small and shabby, crouched at the end of the street with a lawn seared from the heat. The small family in the Impala viewed it with growing dismay, but their need for shelter had been strong, forcing them to take the first thing offered.

John sighed, and turned off the Impala. "Sam, here's the house key. Go unlock the door, and find a place for Dean. I'll bring him up."

"Dad, I'm fine, I can walk..." Dean's voice was less slurred, more alert, but John silenced his oldest with a look, noting the pale face and smudged eyes.

He turned back to Sam, handing him the key. "Go on."

Sam paused briefly, his gaze flicking between the two men in the front seat. John met his gaze, one eyebrow beginning to rise in annoyance; Dean did not look up. Quickly, Sam opened the door and slid out, the Impala creaking behind him, and ran up to the house. The porch steps groaned under his weight, and Sam nearly fell when the porch railing he grabbed for balance shifted suddenly under his hand. He fumbled with the key, trying to find the lock. Behind him he heard his father's low voice, speaking to Dean and a hiss of pain from his brother as he was brought to a standing position. He found the lock, inserted the key – and the door opened under his hand before he could engage the tumblers.

Sam paused, peering into the weighty darkness inside the house. A silver glint here and there, as metallic surfaces caught the wan light from the open door, but it was too dark to pick out anything more. The house smelled musty and old, with the scent of too many cabbage dinners ingrained in the carpet. Another smell, something sharper – sage.

Sam glanced behind him to check his father's progress. Father and son had paused at the end of the driveway, Dean leaning against his father's shoulder. Sam's heart gave a funny little thud, seeing his brother depending on something other that his own competence and his request that John enter the house with him went unsaid. Sam turned back to the doorway, took a deep breath, and slipped into the blackness.

He fumbled alongside the doorjamb, hoping for a light switch, and finding nothing, ventured further into the main room. The heat in the house was almost a physical weight on his chest, his lungs working to breathe the heavy air. He was now well into the middle of the front room, one shin having found a couch, and his eyesight had adjusted enough to make out the dimensions of the house. Off to his right was the entryway to what he presumed was a kitchen, next to a table and chairs. A hallway in front of him led back to the rest of the house, and as he stepped toward it, a shadow moved.

Sam froze, staring at the small flicker of movement. The shadow moved again, and the light from the doorway highlighted the curve of a dog's head, and the shine from its eyes. A low rumble, barely perceptible, filtered into the room. Growling. Sam stepped back, towards the door, wanting his father. "Dad?" he said it quietly, but the dog reacted violently, erupting into a spasm of hacking barks, jumping towards Sam and back, forward and back.

Abruptly, light filled the room, robbing Sam of his night vision, and he stumbled over a corner of the couch and fell. Blinking, Sam looked at the door, and caught a flash of John Winchester standing just inside the doorway, holding a length of wood and advancing on the dog. Dean was standing behind him, clutching the doorjamb, one hand still on the light switch he had found. For a moment the dog quieted, regarding the man in front of him, and Sam slowly drew his legs up to stand. The movement caught the dog's attention, and without warning it lunged towards him, teeth bared, and Sam threw up his arm in defense, closing his eyes.

There was a sharp whap of wood hitting flesh, an anguished yelp, and the dog's body rolled into Sam. The two tangled together, the dog's claws raking Sam's chest, the dog's breath in his face. Sam had a blurred impression of John's form above him, and abruptly the dog was gone as it finally untangled itself from Sam and ran out the door.

There was a beat of silence, the only sound John and Sam's gasps for breath, and then the night shattered into a cacophony of barking, snarling, growling. The sound was intense, causing Sam to clap his hands to his ears, surrounding the house. Flickering, darting shadows moved at the windows, behind Dean in the doorway, under the dead trees at the edge of the property. The sound spiraled up and up, leading towards some violent climax, and abruptly there was silence again. The cessation of sound was as unnerving as the barking had been, and the three Winchesters looked at each in bewilderment.

"What the hell?" John slowly lowered the length of wood he held, and Sam saw, with a small touch of humor, that it was a piece of the porch railing. A jagged nail at one end held a clump of hair and skin from the dog.

Dean, not liking his back against the darkness, took a step into the house, and gasped with the corresponding stab of pain. At the same moment, Sam got to his feet, pulling his shirt up with a gasp as the cloth pulled away from the scratches on his chest.

And John, torn between his sons, realized he had stumbled into a hunt. He was still for a moment, caught by the irony; looking for a refuge for his sons and, for once in his life since Mary had died, trying to avoid a hunt, had brought him to a shit house in the middle of a shit town with the shittiest weather he had ever experienced. And what the hell was with the dogs?

The thought brought a corner of his mouth up in a suppressed grin, and he moved to Dean, gently guiding him to the worn couch and catching Sam with one arm when the younger son came into his reach. He settled both sons on the couch, putting a pillow behind Dean, touching his forehead briefly with one hand. He helped Sam remove the torn remnants of his shirt, and after examining the wounds, went to the kitchen to wet a paper towel.

"What's with the dogs?" Sam asked, wincing as his father held the dripping paper towel to the red scratches on his chest.

"Don't know." John glanced up at Sam's face, faintly surprised at his son echoing his thoughts. He shook his head, and glanced over at Dean. His oldest son was slouched over the arm of the couch, a tiny line of pain marring his forehead from the awkward position. "Here," he said, thrusting the soggy paper towel in Sam's hand. "Throw this away and bring me Dean's pain killers."

Sam stood, but did not move away, unconsciously fidgeting with the paper towel in his hand. "Dad, " he began, "did you see…"

Dean moved then, pushing himself off the couch arm, and groaning softly. John was next to him instantly, soothing his oldest son, gently helping him find a better position. "Go, Sam." Sam moved quickly in response to the thunder in his father's voice, and the question was left hanging in the hot air.

The next hour was a blur of exhaustion for the whole family. John and Sam bringing in worn duffels, unpacking their meager possessions, and securing the small arsenal in the Impala's trunk. Doping Dean, which was always a treat, as the older son, fretful with pain and enforced uselessness, fought them with every bit of his worn will. By the time they had Dean situated in bed, the whole family was puffing with exertion and frustration.

Quiet now, the eastern edge of the sky turning grey with the promise of day, and John finally allowed himself to sit. The kitchen table was covered in items from the first aid kit, three or four of Sam's many notebooks, and a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam's. John gazed at the mess thoughtfully, too tired to care much about it, and when his younger son slipped into the seat across from, turned his gaze to Sam's tired face.

For a moment the two regarded each other, exhaustion and the weirdness of the day turning them into allies. "Thanks for your help, tonight, Sam." John said finally.

John's words caused Sam to duck his head, and he grabbed nervously for a nearby notebook. "I'm sorry," he blurted, not looking at his father, fidgeting with the notebook's wire coil. Something in his tone brought John's guard up, instantly.

"What for?"

"For calling the ambulance." He looked at John from underneath shaggy bangs, then back down at the notebook he was mangling.

John stood, his chair sliding back across the worn linoleum with an ugly sound. A touch of the old anger heated his face, and he could no longer look at his son. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed. "Go to bed, Sam."

And he turned away, catching up the fifth of Jim Beam on the table, and did not look back.

TBC


	2. Cold Brains

When Sam next awoke, it was late afternoon, and the small house seemed to be melting with heat. He rubbed his face groggily, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shake the doped feeling brought on by heat and not enough sleep. The house was quiet around him, and he glanced over at Dean's bed across the room.

His brother slept in that boneless way unique to Dean, heedless of discomfort to his taped ribs and splinted arm. His brow was slightly creased in pain, and Sam pushed away his tiredness to swing out of bed and go to his brother. Touched him lightly on the shoulder, put fingers to Dean's forehead, and when there was no response, Sam padded quietly out to the living room.

The main room was still a shambles from the night before; half-empty duffels spewing their contents across the floor, a litter of medical tape, Sam's mangled notebooks, and gun parts on the table. The broken piece of porch railing had somehow found its way to a kitchen chair, and Sam picked it up, one hand touching the shallow scratches of his chest gingerly. He checked out the window, but the lawn was bare and empty, the street in front of the house soft from the sun. No sign of the chaos from last night.

Sam scrounged up a half-empty bottle of Coke and a Pop-Tart, sitting at the table and eating, thinking about the anger in his father's eyes the night before, the easy way he had been dismissed. The back of his eyes felt hot and heavy, like a headache being ignored, and Sam finished the Coke in one long swig, the flat soda warm and unpleasant on his tongue. He stood, chucked the bottle into a corner of the kitchen, and went back to his room for shoes and jeans.

Dean was still asleep, unmoving, his face pale and drawn. Sam watched him for a moment, the rising of his chest, the beat of his pulse in his neck. He remembered turning his brother over, calling his name, finding the wrist cradled against Dean's chest, the sharp ends of bone visible through torn flesh. The heavy feeling at the back of his eyes pushed, threatened to spill over, and Sam turned on his heel and he left, he beat it, he didn't want to deal with it anymore. He grabbed a notebook from the mess on the table, and slammed the front door behind him.

Walking out of the house into the bright afternoon was like opening an oven and sticking your head inside. The blast of heat and light made Sam pause and squint up into the washed out white bowl of the sky. The sun was more a pressure than anything, something present and there, like gravity or pain. Sam hunched his shoulders a bit against the heat, clutched the worn notebook in his hand and went hunting for the library.

He found it in the center of town, next to an old time tractor that someone had restored and put up on blocks in a weird tribute to the town's agricultural history. Trees withered from the sun's heat sheltered the library, faced with river rock and topped with terra cotta shingles in a strange mixture of Tudor and American West. Sam loved it at first sight, grinning at the strange dichotomy as he entered the building.

In the lobby of the library was a public bulletin board, plastered with the smiles of missing children. The flyers were of every color, with every type of font, with pictures of kids sitting formally, or around a campfire, or with a sibling's arm thrown around their shoulders. The curled paper edges caught every breath of air easily, lifting to show even more flyers underneath, the soft rustle a constant sound. Sam wondered how many layers there were, if you could peel off each layer like some sort of psychotic wallpaper in an insane attempt at interior decorating.

Sam took down the names and information of five of the most recent disappearances carefully in his notebook and then counted the number of flyers he found. He quit at twenty, when his focus on _just the facts_ began to wither under the strain of so many lost watching him. The oldest flyer on the board had a missing date of five years ago. Approximately twenty kids vanishing into nothing over five years. Sam's fingers went to the wire spine of his notebook, began to twist it as he tried to meet the gazes of so many gone.

With an effort, he closed his notebook and turned away, heading into the library proper. To his right was a staircase leading down into the basement, with a small plaque posted on the wall that stated, simply, _Museum_. Sam paused, peering down into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. He could barely discern the outline of a door, with a bit of weak yellow light coming from underneath. Behind him came the rustle of paper, kids lost, smiling out from frozen moments of time. Spurred by the sound, Sam descended into the dark.

The door opened easily under his hand, swinging out into a large, rectangular room with a low ceiling, the air soft and cool on his sun-soaked skin. The peculiar musty smell that seemed to originate with all basements was strong, but not particularly unpleasant, and Sam inhaled it deeply. Exhibits tables ringed the room, with framed photos and captions hanging from the walls. Sam grinned in muted delight, loving the odd collection before him. This place was just getting better and better.

The room housed a haphazard collection of exhibits, containing crime scene pictures from the turn of the century, bits of bridle and iron works from a blacksmith that seemed to be the pride of the town, and a large collection of baseball memorabilia from a hometown kid gone pro. Sam didn't recognize the name, but filed away the information to pass on to Dean. Maybe it would be an enticement to the older brother to actually come to the museum.

His heart skipped oddly, remembering the night wind tousling his hair as he walked home from a study group, watching the door to his home swing lazily on its hinges. Inside, finding Dean, blood draining from his nose and one ear, eyes open and glassy, Sam's breath leaving him like he had been punched. And not finding his father.

Sam closed his stinging eyes. _And not finding his father. _He shook his head, opened his eyes, focusing on the room again. In a corner, almost hidden, the weak light barely catching the glass, was a picture of a group of men standing around a mound of earth. The picture snagged his attention, the stiff postures of the men in it raising his curiosity. He stepped closer, his gaze going to the glass-topped table underneath. On the cloth underneath the glass were a few shards of pottery, a rotted piece of leather, and a dark thigh bone.

Sam recoiled at the sight of the bone, knowing how stupid and dangerous it was to keep human remains. He glanced up at the picture again, recognizing the men's stiffness as fear. Underneath the picture, neatly typed on a square of paper, Sam read _ April 1934 – Construction on the new road unearths an Indian burial mound. From left to right, Sam Edwards, George Gustafson, Zeke Steele, Thomas Means, and Jim Clark._

A placard under the glass, next to the thigh bone, read _Donated from the Zeke Steele Estate._

The recycled air suddenly thinned and became cooler, a smell like sage overriding the mustiness of the basement. Sam jerked his head up, his eyes wide, stepping back from the exhibit and scanning the room. The notebook he was holding dropped to the floor. Abruptly, the sound of a dog in full attack mode echoed in the low room, bouncing from wall to wall. Snarls, choked barks, and growls spun Sam in a circle as he frantically tried to pinpoint the source.

"What are you doing down here?"

The sounds lessened, dwindled into silence. Sam stood in the middle of the room, his breathing harsh from the sudden adrenaline attacking his heart.

A woman stood at the doorway, frowning at Sam. "This door was locked. How did you get in?" Her grey hair was pulled severely back from her face, her eyes small and hard in network of wrinkles. "You're not supposed to be down here without a librarian present."

"I'm sorry," was Sam's automatic reply. He paused, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? You really need to come upstairs." She gestured to the stairs, her eyes unrelenting, oblivious to the fading sounds of a dog hysterical with fury.

Bending to pick up his notebook, Sam switched gears, bringing out the charm only he seemed to possess in his family, the kind of charm that won over old ladies, child support workers, and teachers. Dean, after witnessing Sam talk a principal into letting them leave school early, labeled it "geek magic;" a derogatory term that did not hide his admiration.

"I'm really sorry; I didn't realize this was a guided tour. I just moved here with my family, and wanted to study the history of the area before school started." Sam's gaze slid over to the corner, where pitiful artifacts from a grave were displayed for the vulgar eyes of the public. "I'm really interested in Native American stuff, too." He raised puppy dog eyes to the librarian's stern face, and tried a smile both sincere and apologetic.

Somehow, it worked. Despite Sam's heart still jack hammering in his chest, the librarian accepted the smile and the eyes at face value. Her face lightened a bit, and she patted absently at her hair. "Still don't know how that door got unlocked, but…." She firmed her mouth, gave Sam a tight smile, and stepped into the room. "Actually, there is an Indian burial mound just south of town. Let me show you some more artifacts from it."

She led Sam back to the corner, and gestured to the three items on display. "You've obviously seen these." Her tone still somewhat disapproving, but another meek _I'm sorry_ from Sam seemed to melt her anger. "Here." She knelt, grunting, and Sam could almost hear her knees creak. She opened a drawer under the glass top, and set some more items on top of the table.

A small clay jar, barely cracked, its red and black markings still vivid. A plastic baggie filled with beads, some still strung together. And, with a flourish from the librarian, a large plastic container filled with bones. "The thigh bone in the case is human," she said, "but these are canine."

"Canine?" A memory of howling, snarling, growling, unseen dogs encircling the house. "You mean dogs?"

The librarian nodded. "Yes. The whole mound was filled with dog bones. After they excavated everything, they determined that one woman had been buried with ten dogs."

Sam stared at her.

oooOOOooo

It was hours later, and Sam was walking home from the library, the dust kicked up from his worn runners following the swing of his heels. He was worrying a thumbnail, walking on auto-pilot, his thoughts worrying him. Around him, the near deserted town hummed with light, somnolent and drugged from the unremitting heat. Nothing alive stirred, the breeze kicking up ethereal dust devils that danced only for themselves. A faraway dog bark caused Sam to freeze, but the sound only hung in the air like a drop of amber, slowly fading. Sam's thumbnail came to his mouth again, the cuticles already sore-looking, and he turned the last corner before home.

Heat waves from the blacktop rippled the air in front of him, and Sam squinted as he looked homeward. Someone was standing on the lawn in front of the house, where the seared grass met the blacktop, and Sam blinked, not recognizing the blurred figure at first. Then...

Dean. _Dean. _There was no mistaking the confident set to the shoulders, the slight swagger to the hips. It had been too long since Sam had seen his older brother standing on his own, and his waning patience with Dean's injuries had been turning to outright fear. Seeing his brother now, standing and out in the light, was reward enough for the half-acknowledged fear of loss, and it was easier this time to ignore the familiar heavy feeling that had formed behind his eyes. "Hey, JERK!" Sam yelled at the top of his lungs, the air rebounding with the sound.

He saw Dean's head swing in his direction, caught the flash of white from Dean's smile. "BITCH!" came the response, causing Sam to laugh, and he broke into a pounding run down the road toward his brother.

The heat was not kind to this sudden burst of activity, and Sam came to a stop in front of Dean with his hands on his knees, gulping air, his t-shirt stuck to his back. He heard a soft snort of laughter from Dean, and straightened. "So Dad let you up?" he asked, when he got his breath back.

Dean did not meet his brother's gaze, his green eyes distant as he watched the sun's descent towards the horizon. "He's gone for food." Not really an answer, but deemed safe by Dean because it wasn't really a lie either. He had taken the tape off his nose and off the gash in his cheek, and the black thread in the flesh looked sore and dry.

"You okay?" Sam asked shyly. It was not a question he usually asked his indestructible brother, and the words tasted strange on his tongue.

Dean looked at him indignantly. "Of course. I'm not all girly like you are."He put out a hand and ruffled Sam's shaggy hair. "This looks long enough for a French braid."

"Know how I know you're a girl?" asked Sam, grinning widely. Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "You know what a French braid is."

Dean made an abortive grab for his brother, winced, and laid a suddenly shaking hand on his side. Sam raised a hand, but dropped it quickly. "Ass." Dean managed to say, shakily, but Sam chose to ignore the pain in Dean's voice and looked up at him, grinning. Dean's grin was easy in reply, and he nodded towards the house. "Get inside. You've been gone for awhile."

Sam's grin faded as they walked across the lawn, feeling his stomach knot. "Is Dad home?"

"No," said Dean, following him slowly. "He went shopping."

Which explained why Dean was out of bed and walking around, pretending he was whole. But the gingerly way he climbed the two steps to the house, and the shaking hand on the door jamb for balance belied his pretense. Sam knew better then to offer any aid, but the shadows on his brother's face made him ask, "Dean? Have you taken any pain pills?" On the kitchen table, he caught sight the small brown bottle, unopened.

He looked at his brother, caught the unspoken plea in the green eyes. Sam ducked his head, knowing he should force the issue, but found himself nodding instead. "Okay," he said, "but just wait 'til Dad gets home." Again Dean's grin, a bit faded this time, but still warm and thankful, as he carefully eased down on the couch, pulling a shoebox full of cassette tapes to him.

Sam used Dean's grin as an excuse to drop the responsible bit, and he sat down at the table, putting his notebook down in front of him. He touched the cover with his fingertips, thinking, hearing the fear in the librarian's voice as she spoke to him, surprised again as the materials he was looking for seemed to drop into his hand.

"Dean."

His brother was sorting through the cassette tapes, occasionally glancing at the cover art. One arm was held tight to his right side. "S'up, Sammy?"

"Do you remember last night? All those dogs?"

Dean looked up from the tapes to the windows, streaming with red light from the setting sun, and saw them briefly as dark, letting in only blackness. The suddenness of sound, the suddenness of the cessation of sound. "Kinda. Why?"

Suddenly excited, eager to share what he had discovered, Sam flipped open the notebook, scanning his notes. "I found the coolest museum today, at the library." He frowned, recalling the musty room. "Actually it was weird. All this baseball shit and horseshoes and old photos of crime scenes. Oh, that reminds me, do you know who Bruce Benedict is?"

Dean didn't look up, letting his brother's chatter just wash over him. "Yeah, played for the Atlanta Braves back in the 80's. So-so player."

"Oh." Sam cocked his head, storing the information. "Well, apparently this is his hometown."

Dean looked up at that. "No way. Huh." He shrugged, returned his attention to the tapes.

"Anyway," Sam gave himself a mental shake. "Down in this weird little museum they actually have a thigh bone from an Indian burial mound on display."

Dean's hands on the cassette tapes stilled, but he did not look up. "Huh," he said again, softly.

"There was a woman buried just south of here, buried with all kinds of things to help her in the next life; clay pots, leather carry alls, necklaces, and..." Sam paused for effect, "The bodies of ten dogs." When there was no response from Dean, Sam looked up. "Dean? You listening?"

Dean raised his head, looked at Sam. His face was suddenly tired. "Yeah, I'm listening."

"So the guys who dug all this stuff up, just farmers and guys like that, they never called anybody about it, you know, archeologists or scientists, they just dug it up and kept it. But one guy, this Zeke Steele dude, he asks around, asks all his Indian buddies, and finds out this creepy legend." Sam paused, scanned his notebook. "The Seneca Indians believed that dogs were as smart as people, only they couldn't talk, and dogs were treated very well by the people. But this one family, the wife didn't want to feed the dogs, so she kept the meat for herself."

"Sam…" Dean's voice was barely a whisper.

But Sam was caught, was in the flow, was enjoying the story, his brown eyes alight with the sheer joy of knowing. "But somehow, the dogs' magic caused her to cut herself when she was cutting up the meat, so she sucks on her finger to stop the bleeding." Sam flicked a glance at Dean, his imagination caught by the vision of the woman sucking on her finger. "And Dean, she _liked _it. Ewwww."

Dean's reply smile was tired, but there, and Sam grinned at him before bending back to his notebook. "So she cuts off the rest of her fingers, just to suck the blood, and then she's starts just carving pieces of herself off of her _own body,_ I mean, _gross_."

"Yeah, but Sam…" Dean again, his voice louder, trying to stop Sam.

By this time Sam had the bit in his teeth and was coming down the homestretch. "So then she wonders what it would be like to eat other people's blood, so she kills and eats her own child." A flash of the grotesque bulletin board at the library, the peeling layers of missing children. Sam paused, lifted his head to stare into the middle distance, the red light of the setting sun playing across his face.

Dean, watching him, was mute.

Sam blinked, and turned back to Dean. The joy of knowledge that had first lit his face had subsided into something akin to pain. "The dogs warn the husband before he gets home, and he gathers the warriors of the tribe and they kill the mother. She's buried with ten of the tribe's fiercest dogs to guard her." Silence. The house creaked and settled around them as the air began to cool with the coming of night.

The door opened, and John was there, holding a bag of groceries, his dark eyes going to Sam first, instantly angry. "Sam," he barked, and Sam, who had watched the door open, had seen his father, jumped anyway. His eyes slid to Dean, sitting with a ducked head, then back to his father, feeling somehow caught. "More groceries in the car. Go get them."

"Yes, sir." Sam brushed by his father, the feeling he had been fighting all day suddenly pushing forward, letting itself be known. Something Sam did not normally feel towards his father, that hot and heavy something that had crouched behind his eyes and now taking up residence in the middle of his chest.

He grabbed brown sacks out of the back of the Impala roughly, trying to hold more than his arms could handle. One bag fell to the ground, jarring open a bottle of ketchup and shooting red across the brown lawn. "Fuck!" Sam said, louder than was warranted, and in frustration slammed the other bags to the ground.

"Sam!" John was on the porch, watching him with a furrowed brow. "What the hell's into you?"

The hot and heavy ball that had become Sam's heart tore itself free, forced itself up and into his mouth. "I'm SORRY! I'm SORRY I called the fucking ambulance, okay? Can we move on now!?!" The force of his emotion making him throw his arms out, bend his knees like he was preparing for a battle.

And John was right there, was able to match his anger, his dark eyes narrowed, one hand grabbing Sam's shirt collar. "Sorry isn't good enough! Goddamnit, you don't call for help! We take care of our own!"

Distantly, a fleeting thought of surprise at how angry he was, how he wanted to kill something. "But you weren't THERE, were you! No one was THERE to take care!" Sam fumbled at his father's hand, fisted like a stone in his shirt, trying to pry it away. "How long did Dean just lay there and BLEED?"

The air seemed to reverberate with the shouts, echoing around them, father and son caught in an invisible tornado of emotion. "But you were there, Sam. You were there." John's voice was low, more dangerous than a shout.

And Sam choked on what he wanted to say next, what he couldn't say next, because Dean was standing in the doorway, clutching the doorjamb, eyes glittering. John's grip had relaxed, and Sam was able to tear away from his grasp, stepping backward towards the road. Throwing his arms out again, in a gesture to encompass the entire town. "And what about this, Dad?"

"What about what?" Sam could sense his father's emotion had spent itself, though more than a spark of anger remained in John's face.

"This town? Twenty kids gone missing? The dogs last night?"

And John turned away from him, anger making his movements jerky and stiff. "We can't bother with that now."

"Can't bother with…." Sam looked at him in disbelief. His father ignoring a hunt? The world seemed to shift on its axis.

"That's right, Sam. We can't bother with it. You called the ambulance, remember?" He swung around again to look at Sam, one foot on the steps up to the porch. "Remember the cops? Remember taking Dean out of the hospital AMA? We're still too close to Vicksburg to draw any attention to ourselves." He glanced up at Dean, at the arm his son held tight against broken ribs, a punctured lung. "We're not in any shape to hunt right now." He paused a moment, his mouth open to say more, but he shook his head and finished mounting the steps, moving past Dean and into the house.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, dying rays still lighting the sky. The heat had lessened with the sun's absence, the air softer now, and a few crickets had begun to sing. Sam stood on the dead lawn, his heart thumping, spent from emotion.

"C'mon, Sam." Dean's voice was soft, tired. "Come and eat."

Sam moved across the lawn silently, up the steps to Dean, putting an arm gingerly around his brother's waist in a quick hug. Apologizing for what he had wanted to say, words to hurt his father, words that would have killed Dean. _But I didn't want to be there_. Dean was quiet in his grasp, allowing the contact. Without a word, the brothers went into the house, Sam settling Dean gently on the couch.

John was standing at the kitchen table, gazing down at the notebook Sam had left open. Sam stilled himself when he saw what John was looking at, watching his father with a mixture of hope and anxiety. John was touching the notebook with the tips of his fingers, and Sam saw the crude drawing he had made of the Indian woman under his father's hand.

With a sign, John closed the notebook.


	3. Nobody's Fault But My Own

Dean was in orbit around his father and brother, and the gravitational pull from each was incredibly strong, and incredibly different. His father commanded his attention and loyalty in the same way that the tides rose and the wind blew; a sort of inevitable knowing that went beyond questions. One doesn't wonder if the sun will come up in the morning – it was just understood to be that way.

Sam was completely different. It was beyond Dean to say or even recognize if John took him for granted; the sun rose in the morning and the earth received its light – it was trite to say if one took advantage of the other. But Sam's hold on Dean was open-eyed and wanting and grateful. John knew the sun came up every day; Sam prayed every night for light and gave thanks for it every morning.

So Dean vibrated like a rocket re-entering the atmosphere, jumping from orbital path to orbital path, running a figure eight around John and Sam that was wearing on his battered body. He couldn't take a deep breath. He couldn't walk to the car and grab the tapes out of the back. He couldn't fucking stay awake longer than a couple of hours without dropping from exhaustion. It was down to sheer survival, watching his family through narrowed eyes and trying to guess which way father or brother was going to bounce.

It had been a week since Sam did the Jackson Pollack thing on the front lawn with the ketchup, and the tension between Dean's two stars had been replaced by something darker and less predictable. Sam had been demanding and questioning since he had hit puberty, and the friction of rubbing John the wrong way had erupted countless times in harmless squabbles. This had been different, and the ketchup still staining the dead lawn looked too much like the last blood from something dying.

Dean stood at the line where lawn met blacktop, feeling the sharp and shallow pain from his broken ribs slowly deepen and spread through his body. The pain was a reminder that it had been at least six hours since he had last taken anything, when Sam had given him the bottle along with _I'm going to the library, be back in a few_.

This was the routine that they had fallen into since coming to this town, up late, enjoying the night air, sleep late, pain pill, and library. And when the pain drove Dean up off the couch and out of the house, to stand at the line marking lawn from blacktop, somehow Sam's internal alarm would go off. Five minutes of standing, soaking up the heat and Sam would turn the corner, his shadow knobby and long and leading the way back to home.

And Dean was – what? He didn't know, he couldn't name the feeling that made the inside of his head itch. Knowing his brother timed his day to be home in time to stop the pain from becoming unmanageable. Fuck. Dean had an irrational desire to claw his eyes out and just scratch. The beating in Vicksburg was in the past and Dean wouldn't dignify it with a spare thought. It had happened, it was over, move on. Mentally echoing Sam's rant when he had killed the lawn with the ketchup brought a tiny smile to his face. Any regret Dean had was that Sam had found him. That… that he wished he could take back.

That and John going supernova, going postal, screaming and furious and cutting a wound on Sam that may never heal.

The sun was getting uncomfortably warm on his shoulders, pressing down with a gentle, immense pressure. Dean moved his shoulders gingerly, working the kinks out, a bit smug to feel his body responding quicker than it had just yesterday. He was healing, fuck the universe and every evil thing in it, he was healing and would be out of the shit-hole house and prowling the dark and…

"BITCH!"

Dean jerked his head and looked down the road at a long form walking towards him. Sam. _Sam. _There was no mistaking the easy way to the shoulders, the slim hips made of nothing but sinew and bone, eating asphalt towards him with a long stride. Dean grinned, and leaning back, yelled, "JERK!"

His brother came to a sliding stop next to him, hands on his knees and a big shit-eating grin on his face as he looked up at Dean through shaggy bangs, catching his breath. He began to chatter as soon as he could breathe, something about black horses from the west, and Dean couldn't suppress his own grin. He glanced up at the house, caught a flicker of movement as John moved away from the window. The grin faded as Dean narrowed his eyes, bent his knees slightly, waiting for the bounce.

"Black Elk Speaks." Sam's grin was gone, his eyes questioning on Dean's face. He had noticed the sudden lack of attention from Dean. "Dean?"

"Huh? Black Elk what?"

"This book I found. _Black Elk Speaks. _This old Indian shaman guy, was alive at the battle of Little Bighorn, and man, he's talking about the coolest things. You know what a vision quest is?" Sam had started toward the house, rummaging in his back pack for his book.

Dean followed, watching the house, waiting for engagement.

"A vision quest? Is that when you eat funny mushrooms?"

No answer from Sam.

Dean switched his attention from the house to Sam, saw the boy standing where the ketchup had puddled, staring down at the ground. "Sam?" He came even with his brother, looked down at what had pulled Sam's gaze. In the dried mess of red, very clearly and plainly, was a paw print.

"That wasn't there yesterday." Sam's voice was low. Dean couldn't discern what his tone was implying.

"So a dog was around, Sam." Dean tried for casualness, and was annoyed when he heard patronizing instead.

Sam looked up at that, his brows drawn together. "Yeah, a dog. Don't you get it? Dog magic, dude." Sam sighed, drew his back pack up his shoulder, and walked up to the house, every movement lined with irritation.

Dean frowned, suddenly feeling every bruise. He'd been watching the wrong way for the bounce. He glanced again at the window John had been at, his shoulders tensing, and then followed Sam into the house.

Sam was putting his backpack down on the kitchen table with sharp jerks, one hand still clenching _Black Elk Speaks. _He spoke to Dean over his shoulder, refusing to meet his brother's eyes. "There's a whole box of dog bones in the basement of the county library, Dean, I don't get how you can just dismiss a dog print."

"I'm not dismissing it, Sam," Dean, feeling tired and wanting the silly smile back on Sam's face. Sam turned to face him, his head ducked, bending the book in his hands unmercifully. "I'm just playing devil's advocate here. Just because a dog picks our lawn to tinkle on doesn't mean…" Dean trailed off, as John came into the archway separating kitchen from living room.

Sam's eyes went to Dean's face when he fell silent, knowing immediately who was standing behind him. His eyes turned pleading, meeting Dean's gaze, looking for help. Dean, battered by Sam's pleading, by John's dark acceptance of immediate obedience, looked between them, then down at the book Sam was slowly destroying.

He turned, headed to the couch, desperate for distance from the two people who could demand so much from him with just a look. "Vision quests, Sam?" His voice sounded weak even to him, but he barreled forward, the tricks of keeping the peace, practiced so often, coming easily to hand. "I think Dad knows a lot about vision quests."

Silence, the two behind him circling and sniffing at the offered distraction. Dean held his breath, easing down on the sofa, listening.

"Yeah," Sam broke the silence, and Dean heard rustling as Sam moved items aside to set the book on the table. "Vision quests. This guy went on one and found the knowledge to save his people." Sam's voice was low, a tone of offering in it.

"I've heard of them." A rumble from John, his voice too opaque for Dean to make anything out. Footsteps, as John retreated into the kitchen, followed by the sound of pans being shifted. "Indian warriors would gain totem animals from vision quests." His voice, pitched louder to carry into the living room.

Dean relaxed a tiny bit, allowing his gaze to slide away from the blank tv in front of him to where Sam still stood by the kitchen table. Sam's back was to him, his head tipped down to read the book on the table. "Well, the vision Black Elk has is incredible, but no totem animals." He turned to Dean then, his brow furrowed with concentration as he walked towards the couch and still read the book in his hand. He settled on the couch clumsily, jarring Dean and poking him in the thigh with a knobby elbow.

"Watch it, Samantha," Dean barked, wincing at the pain. "Shit, your totem animal would have to be –"

Sam handed Dean a pain tablet the size of a horse pill. Dean swallowed it impatiently, wanting to finish with his insult.

"— a whooping crane or a fucking moose on roller skates."

"Language, Dean." A warning from John, floating out to his son like the voice of God.

"Sorry."

"So during Black Elk's vision quest, he gets visited by four horses from the four directions of the world. The one from the west is black and represents magic; the one from the south is red and represents fire…" Sam was reading from the book, his voice cracking occasionally, his brow furrowed with the effort of knowledge.

With his brother's chatter washing over him, the smell of frying bacon coming from the kitchen, Dean allowed himself to relax fully, arranging the pillow behind his back to a more comfortable position. He responded to Sam's questions when prompted, just bullshit phrases that floated to his mind, a gentle sort of teasing. His eyes began to droop.

It was hard to let go, hard to leave father and brother to their own devices. The fear of it kept Dean half-awake, blinking sleepily at Sam. _Watch for the bounce,_ he thought, jerking his chin up, finding Sam's eyes warm and comforting on his face. Fear drained away under the quiet regard, and it was his last thought.

oooooOOOooooo

"Watch it, Samantha," Dean barked, wincing at the pain. "Shit, your totem animal would have to be –"

Sam saw his chance. Dean was like fired bullet when an insult was coming, unable to bring it back or deflect it until the target was hit. Smoothly, Sam handed him the pain pill, and watched in hidden delight as Dean swallowed it quickly.

"—a whooping crane or a fucking moose on roller skates."

Every little brother gathers an arsenal with which to do battle with his family, and Sam was no exception. And while the Winchesters' lifestyle had caused him to seek weapons that drew more than blood, Sam was keenly aware of their sharp edges. He knew the weapons he employed intimately, knew which one would work best on which family member. And for Dean?

Subtlety. Misdirection. Hiding the sword behind the red cape. And while the sword was rarely used, Sam felt comforted by the mental heft of it.

Sam kept his eyes on his book as Dean was scolded lightly for language, knowing his weakness in lying; knowing Dean could spot his bluff a mile away. Dean settled beside him, rearranging the pillow and leaning back, abandoning watchfulness. Sam gave a mental sigh of relief, turned his attention to his book and began to read out loud, soothing Dean even more with his voice.

At one point, as Dean began to succumb to the drug's pull, Sam asked him what his totem animal would be. Knowing Dean, Sam was expecting an answer along the lines of mountain lion, or bear, or some other animal equally fierce. He was not expecting Dean, regarding him under half-closed lids, to say, "Turtle."

A moment of fumbling, then Sam asked, "A turtle? Why a turtle?"

Dean's eyes were closed. Sam was certain he wasn't going to get an answer. "'Cause he always has his home with him and always has a place to hide."

Sam considered himself an expert in all things Dean, but this summer was straining his expertise to the limit. A fucking turtle? Huh. Something new to file away under D for Dean. That, and the painful realization gained since the beating in Vicksburg, that Dean held Sam to a higher standard, a plane of existence that should not be sullied by blood or pain.

Dean had always been over-protective, a characteristic that Sam had tried to go around, over or underneath with limited success. Forcing the pill on him was another attempt at this, trying to disable Dean's Super Sammy Sense, to leave Sam free to complete the task he had arranged for himself tonight.

But this idea of Dean's, that Sam was... what? Better than Dean, than John, better than the life they led? That Sam was meant for something else? None of this rang true for Sam, and he circled the idea warily, unwilling to try to make sense of it, but equally unwilling to quit poking at it.

In Vicksburg, leaning over his brother's body, the green eyes suddenly open and looking into his face, Dean's voice, _No, Sam, its okay, don't look, please, don't look... _ Dean trying to roll away from Sam, cradling his mangled arm against his chest, wheezing and gasping and half-dead.

This was more than over-protective, this was more than beating up bullies at school or taking point on every hunt; this was over-protective to the point of self-destructive. It left Sam alternating between bouts of fury and terror; fury at his brother so strong he wanted to kill him, terror equally strong that next time, Dean wouldn't open his eyes. Both emotions left Sam shaking, made the back of his brain itch until he wanted to reach behind his eyeballs and just scratch.

And now, trying to navigate this new and dark territory of rebellion he and John had entered, Sam found himself eager for a hunt. He had a hope, an idea, that if perhaps he were to find the missing kids, solve the puzzle, that John would turn clear eyes upon him again. The shadow that had been there since Vicksburg would be banished. And maybe Dean… that over-protective streak would be gone, with Sam proved able to muck about in the mud and blood, be a Winchester, equal to Dean in all things.

Next to him, Dean let out a sound like chainsaw. Sam glanced up from the chapter he had been absently reading and saw Dean's head canted at an unnatural angle over the back of the couch. A thin line of drool was stretching from the corner of his mouth towards the floor. Sam snorted in amusement.

"Dad? Dean's asleep. Help me put him to bed?"

"Shit." The curse came without heat. John came out of the kitchen, stood in the archway and considered his oldest. "I just fried a pound of bacon."

Sam looked over at his dad, smiling, willing to accept the tentative peace that only the smell of frying bacon could create. "More for me."

For a moment John didn't respond, and Sam's smile was starting to slip. John sighed, suddenly, as if he had come to some conclusion he didn't like, and joined the brothers at the sofa. "All right. Get his good side."

Together, the two of them, both helped and hindered by a slightly awake Dean, got him down the hall and into a stale, unmade bed. Dean immediately fell back asleep, not responding to John's muttered good night or Sam's brief touch on his face.

Dinner was brief, Sam's mind on the planned events of the night, systematically eating BLT after BLT. He didn't notice John's oblique glances, the shuttered gaze flicking from his face to Dean's empty chair, to the book in Sam's hands. He left the table abruptly sometime during Sam's third BLT, muttering something about the Impala, and soon distant sounds of tools and grease and the hood being slammed filtered in the open door.

Sam had parked himself on the sofa after dinner, engrossed in the book, unaware of the world around him. When he finished, the night had aged, a full moon firmly held in the black velvet of sky. He could do nothing but sit, alternating cold and heat, trying to process the writer's vision. It was what Dean termed _geek break-down, _when Sam's brain finally found something it could really chew on.

"Sam? You goin' to bed?"

He blinked, coming back to earth with a solid thump, and looked up to see his father standing in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. John was dressed for bed, his face worn with sleep, blinking at his son in a way that reminded Sam of Dean. Sam looked down, dumbly, at the book in his lap, then up to his father. "Yeah, Dad. I just got – um. Yeah. Goin' now."

Again, a long, direct stare from his father, and Sam began to fidget, bending the book in his hands. "Sam. Don't –" John stopped, his eyes narrowing on Sam's slowly reddening face. "You stay in tonight, understand?"

And Sam found it almost comical how fast he could switch from epiphanies to fury, his brain whirring from processing vision quests to deciding which weapon to use against John. For John it had always been guilt, logic, and in moments of extreme emergency, Dean. Sam opened his mouth, anger snapping his eyes; saw from John's stance that he was readying himself for Sam's opening thrust.

He stopped, thinking about what he wanted to accomplish. He shut his mouth, swallowed heavily, and nodded. "I understand, sir." Managed those words without even a squeak of sarcasm.

John held his pose, still ready for battle, watching Sam distrustfully. He ducked his head, broke the gaze on his son's face, and nodded. Then turned away back to his own bed.

Sam took deep breaths, quieting his heart, slowing the anger thrumming in his limbs. The book he had held wouldn't close when he dropped it to the floor; the cover bent open at an irreparable angle. He studied it for a moment, the twang of guilt ignored, then walked down the hall to the bedroom shared with Dean.

He had hidden a wind-up alarm clock under his pillow before he had left for the library that day, and now he regarded it a bit hesitantly. The fact of what he was planning to do was breathing down his neck, and John's suspicions hung heavy in the air with its own sort of heat. Sam debated the issue; staying, going, taking a back seat again to Dean's non-stop forward motion, being lost in John's tunnel vision.

A kind of wry smile curved his lips, and he sat the clock to go off in an hour.

It took about twenty minutes for Sam to reach the south side of town, retracing the route back to Vicksburg, the blacktop gleaming darkly in the moonlight. The air was soft and humid, like someone had wrung out a hot, wet towel and laid it on his face. Crickets sang busily to themselves, and as he passed a honky-tonk bar, were briefly replaced by the sound of some unknown country singer bitching about her love life. Sam, thinking of Dean, gave the bar a one-finger salute as he jogged past, humming _Armageddon It_ under his breath.

The road beckoned him forward, its markings strangely florescent in the dark. Behind him, unnoticed, the lights from the honky-tonk abruptly died with a near-audible pop, leaving only the tiniest sound of unrequited love to die in the blackness. Fields stretched away from him on either side, the occasional light from a lone farmhouse the only signs of habitation.

When he reached his destination, he slowed to walk, scanning the fields around him for anything out of the ordinary. At least, he thought he had reached his destination, and his definition of "out of the ordinary" was both broad and vague. To be perfectly honest, Sam wasn't sure if this was the actual spot where the road crew had found Cannibal Woman, wasn't sure if the spot would even be active, with her bones and the bones of her guardians tucked away in the basement of the county library.

He stopped, dropped his backpack to the blacktop, and fished out a flashlight. He stood in the middle of the road, feeling the heat from the day through the soles of his runners, and turned in a circle, playing the light over his immediate surroundings.

Hillocks and dense bunches of weeds sent long shadows out over the flat fields, moths and flying insects darting in and out of the beam. Crickets kept up their monotonous song, with an occasional cicada sending out a flat, atonal note. Nothing.

Sam sighed, tucked the flash under his chin and rummaged in the backpack for his notebook. Returning home without something substantial to present to John was galling, and he flipped sharply through the pages, trying to find something he hadn't read twice already. Brows drawn together, mumbling under his breath, Sam turned his full concentration to the notebook.

One by one, the crickets dropped their voices, their summer song slowly fading into nothing. A cicada gave one last angry burst of noise, and was gone.

"….salt isn't going to work….something to do with the sage…."

Silence. A farmhouse in the distance, its light on to guide its family home, went dark. A spot in the field, nearly twenty feet away from Sam, began to vortex lightly.

"….I know, I know, gotta find the Flint Man…."

The air began to sharpen, take an edge against the heat rising from the blacktop. The vortex strengthened, the blackness within seeming to writhe and whirl in upon itself. The faint, faraway sound of barking began to grow in volume.

"…if I only knew who the Flint Man was…" Sam trailed off, his head rising slowly. The barking became louder, as if a pack of dogs were rushing toward him. His hand found the flash, gripped it tightly, and he began to swing the beam in long arcs across the field from which the sound was originating.

The shine of dog eyes glinted greenly in the light, and Sam froze the beam, focusing on the spot. More pairs of eyes passed through the beam, glancing over at Sam, and away. The vortex was whirling madly now, the sight dizzying if one looked too long. The sound of barking had become louder, joined with the sounds of snarling and growling. Sam could see plenty of pairs of eyes, and while they glinted at him as the light caught them, there was no body or head to follow. Just the eyes.

The vortex was ringed by dogs, known only by the shine of their eyes, and the ever-rising sound of their fury. They did not advance on Sam, focusing their energy on the slowly growing spot of twisting blackness hovering in the field. The vortex seemed to pulse, pushing against the ring containing it, seeming to gather energy as it fought to free itself.

In the distance, the sound of a car's engine drifted in the night air. Sam took a step towards the vortex, one foot on blacktop, one foot on the gravel shoulder.

The vortex was starting to coalesce, beginning to take a vaguely human shape. The dogs also began to build up canine shapes around the glow of their eyes, their strangled barking becoming even more hysterical. It was obvious Cannibal Woman was struggling to materialize, her guardians fighting every inch she took. Sam guessed that it was when she won that kids went missing.

The hiss of tires on blacktop became louder, closer. Another step forward, one foot on gravel, one now planted on dirt.

The vortex gave one last massive push, and the dogs seemed to bend outward with it, near breaking, and Sam heard a sudden yelp of pain. Despite the stress, the ring held, the dogs' forms almost solid. The vortex lost its sense of organization, began to diminish and shrink.

The car's engine, closer now, became the low, throaty rumble of a late 60's muscle car. Sudden dismay brought Sam's head around with a jerk, dropped his stomach into his shoes. Instinctively he took another step forward, both feet planted firmly in the rich farmland around him.

The car's headlights blinded him, pinned him in place as it drew to a stop at his side. Blinking, Sam could make out his father's shape in the driver's seat, the moonlight finding John's knuckles clenched around the wheel. Sam threw a quick glance to the vortex in front of him, finding it smaller still, though it had ceased to shrink.

John's head turned, following Sam's gaze, watching what Sam was watching.

The dogs abruptly went silent, their barking gone as if switched off. Sam could still make out the slight flicker as they raced around the vortex, but the glow from their eyes had either vanished, or they were no longer keeping check on Sam.

The car door squeaked as John rose out of the Impala. "Sam." His voice was tight with anger.

"Do you see it, Dad?" Sam's voice seemed to squeak with the effort of persuasion. He swung the flash's beam to point at the base of the vortex. Sam couldn't control the slight wobble in it as his hand shook.

John moved quietly, carefully, to stand at his son's side, his eyes on the vortex. The flicker of black moving through black from the dogs suddenly disappeared, leaving only a circle about a foot across to dance lightly above the ground. The circling, weaving turmoil within it was lazy, vanquished.

"Get in the car." John's hand flashed out and grabbed a handful of Sam's t-shirt at the shoulder. Sam stumbled from the sudden tug, and he windmilled his arms to keep from falling. The flash went end over end, the beam strobing, to shatter on the blacktop. Sam's hand, flailing for balance, smacked John solidly across the cheekbone.

An incoherent word, a cross between an outright growl and an obscenity, and John's other hand came across Sam's body and grabbed his shoulder. Sam moved forward, dosey-doeing the pair of them in tight circle, putting his back to the vortex. John's face was inches from his own, eyes wide and nostrils flared. "Goddammit. Goddammit."

Breathing hard, the two stared at each other, looking for hope, looking for love, looking for something they could cling to as they killed each other.

Something grabbed Sam from behind with no warning other than John's slightly widening eyes, John's brain shouting a warning too late. He was pulled from John's grasp easily, the shoulder of his t-shirt ripping at the seam, the sleeve left in John's fist. Sam fought, twisting to face what had grabbed him, digging his heels into the earth in an effort to stop his forward motion.

The vortex was humming, singing a note of need into the night. The dogs were silent. The dogs were gone.

Sam felt a brutal yank on his arms and shoulders as he was pulled forward, and he tripped over his own feet. For a moment he was flying, nearly perpendicular to the ground, and he had brief glimpse of the small circle of writhing black directly in front of him. Then there was the earth, and he put out his arms defensively.

The thump as he landed was cruel, driving air from his lungs and blackness into his head. He was aware of a sudden burst of pain in his arm, then the night seemed to go white around him, and he knew nothing.


	4. Bottle of Blues

_A/N: I keep forgetting to put these little notes in, and then the story's up and it's too late for me to say anything. One thing I feel I have to point out: I have no idea where the boys are – some place where Seneca Indians used to live, kinda near a town called Vicksburg. You find out, you win the million bucks. Lesson learned, next story will be all about geography. Thanks for all the great reviews, thanks for being patience with my slow going on the writing and posting and the rest of it._

_Disclaimer: The care and feeding of all things Winchester are Kripke's, I just play with 'em when he's not looking._

ooooOOoooo

"Sam!"

The warning came too late. John's grip tightened too late. His son was pulled from him easily; leaving John standing with his feet planted in the earth, stuck, one hand clutching the sleeve torn from Sam's t-shirt. There had been a sign, a tiny change in the outline of the small ball of blackness dancing above the field, but anger had been so strong, the sense of betrayal so fierce, that John hadn't acted on it.

And now he watched his son being pulled across the field, Sam's heels digging furrows in the earth, every line of his body taut and straining. And John stood there, able only to call his son's name, feeling anger change into adrenaline, change into hot pride as he watched his son struggle against an unseen force.

It wasn't until he saw the powerful jerk forward that seemed to pull Sam's arms out of his shoulders, saw Sam flying, several inches above the ground, that John was able to put one foot forward, uproot himself and take action.

Sam in the air, his mouth a round O of surprise, his arms coming forward defensively. The black spot of darkness dancing away, shrinking into nothingness. The pointless sound of an owl calling.

The vicious thunk of Sam's body meeting the ground. A small, more ominous crack as his head whipped forward, slamming into the earth.

At that John shook the dust from his boots and sprinted across the field to his son. The slim body was still, lifeless, as John came to his knees beside it, laying one hand between the bony shoulder blades. Sam's heart was beating strongly, and the feel of it calmed John. He took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering anger, and slowly turned his son, settling Sam's head gently on his bent thigh.

He had to stop then, close his eyes and take in more air, a few curses riding the breath from his lungs.

Sam's forehead had met with a half-buried rock, the sharp edge opening a gash about 4 inches long diagonally directly above his nose. Blood was still running freely, beginning to pool into Sam's closed eyes and matting the eyelashes. Without a thought, John held the torn sleeve from Sam's t-shirt to the wound to staunch the worst of the blood, trying to shrug out of his button-down shirt at the same time.

"Sammy, boy, don't you go bleeding on me now… Sam? Sam, wake up." He wasn't fully aware he was speaking, finally able to get his shirt off and ball the fabric in his hand. He changed hands easily, throwing the now sodden shirt sleeve to the ground and holding his shirt to Sam's forehead. "Sam, you're three different kinds of stubborn, but you've gotta wake up."

"Hey!"

Startled, John looked up, glancing across the dark field towards the voice. Someone had heard something, coming out of the small farmhouse about 100 yards away, now crossing towards him. The light from the farmhouse was behind the figure, hiding his features and casting a long shadow towards John. "Everything alright?"

John watched the figure approach in trepidation, the sight of a stranger always leaving him guarded and wary. He had an insane urge to answer _Yep, everything's fine here, how are you? _ On his knee, Sam turned his head, groaning.

John jerked his head back to his son. "Sam? You back, boy?" Sam blinked furiously, the blood from the gash on his head obscuring his vision. He raised one hand, shaking badly, trying to grasp his father's arm. "Sam, you talk to me, you hear me?"

"…..dad…. what?"

The stranger had arrived, leaning over John and Sam, an older man in jeans and a t-shirt with a worn face. "Holy Christ, that's a lot of blood. That boy alright?"

John cut his eyes sideways towards the farmer, but did not lift his head. Sam was turning his head towards his father, his hand finally snagging onto John's arm, the clutch fierce. "S'alright, Sam, I'm here. You talk to me, Sam, you talk to me."

"My head hurts." The words were soft, the voice small, but the sound of it lessened the frantic beat of John's heart.

"Of course it hurts. You've split it open."

"Okay." Sam stilled, closing his eyes, accepting his father's logic.

Gruffly, to the farmer watching everything with avid curiosity, John said, "Gotta bandana? Or a handkerchief?"

"Yep." He produced a worn red bandana from his back pocket, handed it to John. "What the Christ you doing out here anyway? What happened to the boy?"

John didn't answer, using the bandana to carefully wipe the blood out of Sam's eyes. Sam scrunched his face in protest, trying to hold still under his father's ministrations, and failing miserably. "Kay, kiddo, I'm gonna get you up. You ready for this?"

Sam's face was white, his eyes still closed against the world around him. "No. Just a sec."

"Sam, we gotta get you home."

"No, sir, you gotta get this kid to hospital." The farmer leaned over Sam, studying the white face and the gash on his forehead, still seeping blood through John's shirt. "This kid needs stitches, needs a doctor."

John ground his teeth in frustration, suppressing a growl. He shot a glance up into the farmer's face, and the farmer stepped back a pace, less sure of himself. "I can call an ambulance, if you like."

"No ambulance."

"….ambulance…." Sam's eyes were open, watching his father, echoing the word.

John ruthlessly crushed the sudden push of emotion, thinning his lips with the effort. "We've gotta get up, Sam. You ready?"

"Mister."

John looked up at the farmer again, disliking the sudden shift in the stranger's tone. A shift towards something darker – warning, angry. "The boy needs a doctor. There's too much blood. My truck is close, if you don't want to, I'll take him." The sentence less an offer to help, more a threat.

A battle of wills, John staring up at the farmer, the ground shifting beneath his feet, the advantage all to the other. Sam bloody and hurt on the ground, the threat from the farmer so real it hung in the air like an afterimage of a flash of light. "Fine." John all but spit the words. "Let's get him up."

They were cruel in hauling Sam to his feet, ignoring the boy's bit off cries as his head throbbed with the movement. They had also discovered Sam's arm was, at worst, broken, hopefully just sprained. The farmer had inadvertently grabbed it, the yell from Sam enthusiastic and unrestrained.

Now, in the hospital, John sat in the waiting room with his elbows on his knees, his head ducked, and feeling like there wasn't enough air in the room. Things had spiraled out of his control as soon as the farmer had crossed the field toward them, bullied them into coming here. There had been a quick conversation between the farmer and the attending ER doctor as soon as they came in, with many meaningful glances and hushed words that made John's skin crawl.

Carefully walking Sam into the examination room, helping him up on the bed, all kinds _'S okays_, and _You'll be all rights_ littering the air. The doctor, a tall, austere woman with sharp eyes coming in behind him, asking politely if John would be so kind to wait outside.

_Shit, no,_ was the answer, and then the hugest orderly John had ever seen appeared in the doorway, the farmer behind him with smug look. John had straightened himself, narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to lay down the law -- And found himself outside the room, the door shutting in his face, the orderly's paw of a hand propelling him down the hall to the waiting room

But things hadn't been right since Vicksburg, John in freefall, able to control only trajectory and speed, the ground still rushing toward him as sure as death. John in Vicksburg had been edgy and careless, taking Dean on the hunt and knowing he shouldn't have brought the boy, knowing how poltergeists lapped up adolescent energy like a cat laps cream.

He had brought Dean anyway, wanting to finish the hunt and move on, his goal always on the demonic, impatient with spirits and wendigos and grade-school poltergeists. He had brought Dean, and the poltergeist had pounced on the nineteen year old, flinging him against walls, tipping over bales of hay, tossing him out of the hayloft, anything to illicit bursts of energy like hits from a bong. And John chasing after the two of them like Curly after Moe and Larry, and it would have been fucking hilarious if not for the sound of Dean's cries.

John in Vicksburg had been forced to gather his son together after the poltergeist had its fun, drop the horribly limp body in the Impala, and dump him in the living room of the house they were renting. John in Vicksburg, his mind already distracted by Bobby's phone call about the string of possessions in California, the rash of strange fires, John wanting to be gone.

Dumped his son like a pile of dirty laundry on the living room floor, and charged back to the barn to finish off the goddamn fucking pissant little poltergeist.

"Mister."

John gritted his teeth before he even raised his head, the farmer's presence like a burr caught in his sock. _Easy, easy,_ in his head, breathing evenly. Straightened slowly, raised his head to regard the farmer with a blank face and glittering eyes.

The farmer's smugness was gone, without Conan the orderly around to back him up. He stepped back a pace, holding up his hand with a set of keys in it like an offering. "I've brought your car, the black Impala? It's in the parking lot."

John blinked, reptilian slow. His face remained blank, stone. "Thank you." He held out his hand, the farmer dropped the keys into the open palm quickly, turned and marched to the door without a backward glance.

Freefall. Wanting to reach out and tear the farmer's heart out, beat him with the bloody end of his arm, mayhem and carnage. Because the farmer had seen a fifteen year old boy bloody and unconscious in his field, and had helped. The ground blurring underneath him with the speed of his fall.

He stood as the door to the exam rooms opened, and the doctor who had looked at him like he was vomit in the gutter, Sam's doctor, strode into the room. She kept her eyes on the chart she held as she crossed the room to John, refusing to his meet his gaze. As she came closer, John noticed fine drops of sweat on her forehead, the muscles in her throat moving as she swallowed. Following her, nonchalant and tense, was a police officer.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm keeping Sam tonight for observation. I've also called the Division of Child and Family Services to investigate what I perceive as possible child abuse." She stopped, swallowed again, though her voice did not betray any nervousness. "A caseworker will interview Sam, and possibly interview you before the end of the day. I suggest you fully cooperate with them."

John hit the ground.

ooooOOoooo

They had given Sam ketamine before stitching up the gash in his forehead, something that sent him deep and out before he had time to breathe, before he could call to his father. He was aware of the tug of stitches at the bridge of his nose, aware of movement around him, but not concerned by it. Random images came to mind, passing before his unseeing eyes, considered by him objectively.

_Dean's blood on his jeans._

Stop. Was it really so bad? He had watched countless times as Dean stitched his father, or his father Dean, had seen so much Winchester blood he wondered how any of them remained standing.

_John giving him an airplane, his father's boots solid and sure under his ribcage, Sam spreading his arms to fly._

Stop. The man he hated, who hated him, grinning and laughing at his attempts to imitate Superman. How to reconcile love and rage?

_Dean flinging paper footballs at him over the front seat of the Impala, grin penny bright and impervious to the stretch of endless highway they were traveling._

Stop. Traveling sucked, pulling up tender roots sucked, but Dean always there; sometimes able to wheedle out another week of staying so Sam could finish a course, run one last track meet.

_John grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, knuckles white, face unfamiliar with rage._

Stop.

_Dean groaning, blood bubbling on his lips, trying to speak, trying to beg No ambulance, No ambulance._

Stop.

_John smiling, boots firm under his ribcage._

Stop. Stop.

_Dean's arm bloody and torn, the stomach churning sight of pale bone among the red._

Stop stop stop stopstopstop

"Sam?"

He blinked awake, the images fading quickly, gone before he was aware of them. His brain felt wrapped in cotton, his reflexes slow as the ketamine slowly wore off. His mouth opened, he thought words, sentences, none of which made it to his mouth.

"It's okay, Sam, give yourself a chance to wake up." His doctor was at his side, and he turned his head slowly to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes were warm, her face thin and holy, like a nun's. "You're going to be okay. You've sprained your wrist badly, and have a concussion. Just a really bad headache."

"I know what a concussion is." This time his thoughts achieved sound, his voice weak but audible.

The doctor frowned at this, looked over her shoulder at a man standing directly behind her. "That's good, Sam," she responded, distracted. She turned back to Sam, adjusting his bed so he was more upright. His head gave a petulant throb at the movement, but the pain was slight, manageable. Sam regained control of his body in increments, able to twitch his arms next to his side, slide his feet out, and finally scootch his butt back so he was sitting up more.

"Where's my dad?" His voice stronger, his confidence rising as the drug wore off.

The man, who had been hovering in the background suddenly stepped forward, came into focus for Sam. Dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve button down shirt, a tie loose around his neck, eyes pale and colorless. "Hi, Sam, I'm Brett Weaver. Let's talk about your dad."

"Where is he?"

"Sam, can you tell me what happened, out there at Ernie Young's place?"

"I want my dad." He sounded like a bratty kid, and angry, he cleared his throat. "Can you get my dad?"

"I understand, Sam. Can you tell me what happened?"

The events were a blur, Sam barely able to puzzle out who Ernie Young was. The farmer. All that was really clear was the huge pull forward, the vicious tug on his arms as he went flying across the field. _John's boots firm under his ribcage._

"I don't remember."

"Sam, do you remember why you were out there?"

"I was taking a walk. Me and my dad were taking a walk."

"How did you get hurt, Sam?"

Sam's jaw set, his brow furrowed. Dean called it Sam's mule look. "I fell."

"Was your Dad with you, Sam, when you fell?"

The jaw remained firm, stubborn, but suddenly Sam was crying. _John's face unfamiliar with rage. _"Yes." His voice caught on a sob. "Yeah, he was there."

ooooOOoooo

The library shimmered in the noon heat, waves of heat rising from the roof, the asphalt parking lot in front of the building. John sat in the Impala, hands clutching the wheel with white knuckles, eyes slitted against the sun's glare.

Open the door, slide out, boot on the asphalt. John's brain wrapped in cotton, watching objectively, having relinquished all control to the insistent throb of fury. The library door under his hand, opening into cool darkness.

The peculiar library hush, Sam's billboard rustling in the silence. John glanced at it briefly, the sight of it giving him insight into the farmer's actions, the doctor's suspicions, but doing nothing to alleviate the rage.

The small plaque reading _Museum, _John's boots on the stairs, squeaking against the plastic tread. The door at the bottom locked, the smell of sage rising from underneath the door jamb. John knelt, inserting a lock pick, and the door opened seconds later.

A beeline for the small exhibit table in the corner, quick glances at the pictures on the wall, showing men stiff with fear. Picking the lock on the case, grabbing the thigh bone, wincing at the greasy feel. Picking the lock on the drawers underneath, finding the plastic container rattling with dog bones.

Sage so sharp in the air John could have been standing in a field of it.

Close the case, close the drawer, panther soft across the room, out the door and up the stairs. Walking outside into the white glare of noon, the library door clicking shut behind him. The pictures of gone kids forgotten in the silence.

He stopped next to a decrepit barn in an empty field on the north side of town, pulling the Impala to the side of the road. The fury in his head subsided somewhat, enough to be coherent, the mantra _son of a bitch, son of a bitch _in his head marking tempo as he grabbed the thigh bone and the plastic container and carried them behind the barn.

Salt, a white rain pattering against bone. Lighter fluid, darkening bone. Fire, the match flaring in John's hand, arcing down into the pathetic pile of remains. Fire, cleansing bone. The smoke smelled like sage. John turned his back, the act of destruction already forgotten, and went back to the Impala.

When he turned the corner toward home, fury abated into something heavier at the sight of Dean standing where lawn met blacktop, waiting.


	5. We Live Again

_A/N: So here's the final chapter. I had an idea of maybe an epilogue, but don't know if there's anything more to say. Let me know what you think. Also, tons and tons of thanks to everyone who stuck with me, and who enjoyed my little slice of Winchester heaven. _

_Disclaimer: Don't own them, and even if Kripke ever gave them up, I think BigPink has first dibs._

ooooOOoooo

Dean stood at the line where lawn met blacktop, furious.

Waking that morning, late morning, to an abnormally quiet house, no smell of coffee percolating, and no sounds of Sam snoring. Feeling the pull of the sedative Sam had given him, weighing down his arms and legs, dulling his mind. He had pushed himself up, stood and stared at Sam's empty bed, his mind trying to push past the grogginess, striving towards an answer. Padded across the hall to his father's room, stared at his father's bed, the peaks and hollows of the kicked aside blankets empty no matter how many times he blinked.

And it took two trips, _two fucking trips,_ stumbling like an idiot from bed to bed, before his mind reached the obvious conclusion, his mind exploding into absolute, white-hot fury. Paired with the bitter undertow of betrayal, both emotions immediately lost in the overwhelming blackness of _where the hell is everyone_?

He knew instantly where Sam was, it didn't take a college graduate to see why Sam had deuced him with the sedative. And John's paranoia at an all time high, dragging him out of bed to hunt down his wayward son and administer that unique, loving brand of justice John was so good at. But knowing where they were didn't rest Dean's fears; if anything the knowledge gave a weird, undead life to it, zombie fear stalking the shopping mall of Dean's mind.

The Impala was gone also, leaving Dean with no alternative but waiting, feeding his fury. Which was normal for his family, right? Going from the safe, bacon-scented comfort of the night before, Sam content and chattering next him to here, alone, furious and worried, knowing full well his family was off self-destructing without him. It was wrong, his family couldn't be both, couldn't be _rage_ and _comfort_ at the same time. One had to be a lie, the duality of both together was unsustainable without something giving, mutating – but to find the truth? To choose the truth?

He shied from the thought, recognizing the darker danger there. Dean did not want to find the truth.

The sedative Sam had given him the night before had done nothing for his pain, and pacing restlessly from room to room in the house had only encouraged its stealthy burn along his arms and legs, a deep ember resting in his belly. He leaned in the archway between kitchen and living room, stubbornly refusing to glance at the prescription bottle on the table, twisted thoughts --

_This will show 'em, leaving me – I'll just stand here in excruciating pain – that will get 'em._

-- meandering through his groggy brain, Dean able to see the silliness of it, but sticking with the thought anyway. And the odd kind of hope, that Sam would somehow sense his pain, and come in the door with the stupid grin and concerned brown eyes. Upon which, Dean would immediately take him to the floor and beat the piss out of him, payback for the fucking sedative the night before. He stood there for about ten minutes, before his breath huffed out angrily, almost a sob, and he hobbled across the living room and out the door.

He lost track of how long he waited, the sun moving above him unnoticed, his eyes watering from the heat and the pain. He checked the ground behind him, dazedly scouting out a soft spot to land, knowing he would eventually just drop.

The low growl of the Impala, her acceleration dropping to take the turn towards home. The sound revived Dean, brought rationality back to his brain, and he shifted, straightening his stiff back. The Impala slowed to a crawl, turned into the driveway, the engine cut off. John did not budge, one hand still on the wheel, his face in profile to Dean. The tableau held for a moment, neither Dean nor John wanting to move forward.

Then the door opened with that annoying squeak John kept trying to fix, and Dean stepped forward, rage he had thought burned out of him returning with a rush. "He went looking for Cannibal Woman last night, didn't he?"

John, sliding out the car, paused and looked at Dean over his shoulder. "Is that what he calls her? Yeah, out on the south side of town, next to that honky tonk place." The door slammed with a bang, but John did not turn, resting his head lightly on the Chevy's hot frame.

"What happened?" Dean took a pace toward his father, stopped when John turned, seeing the last vestiges of rage in the corners of John's eyes, in the shadows bracketing his mouth. "You're mad."

"Have you taken a pain pill this morning?" His father spoke mildly, ignoring the question, and stepped past him towards the house. The unmistakable scent of lighter fluid rode the air from his passage.

Dean, totally taken aback, his mind stumped, said the first thing that came to mind. "You've been hunting?" Feeling hurt, feeling _shit am I that stupid? _jealous that his father had done so without him.

That brought John to a halt, halfway in the doorway of the house, and he turned to face Dean. Behind him, the phone began to ring, harsh and demanding. "I found the bones of the dogs in the library, salted and burned them."

This made Dean realize both father and brother had been hunting without him. He was so stunned he didn't know what to feel. "Where's Sam? Is he okay?"

The phone called again, the third or fourth ring.

"He's okay." John said, not meeting Dean's gaze. "He split his head open, probably has a concussion, and sprained his wrist."

"Where is he?"

Fifth ring. Sixth.

"In the hospital. They wouldn't – I've got DCFS on my ass now." Rage again, bubbling like boiling syrup, viscous and sticky. "That's probably them, now." He stepped into the house, holding the door open. "Now get your ass in here and take a pill."

Tenth. Eleventh ring. The sound sharp and tyrannical.

Dean obeyed, first the unspoken command, giving up his rage in light of what John was feeling, and then the second, stepping across the dead grass to the porch. He did not see John's face as he walked past him into the house, a quick expression of despair more appropriate on the face of a drowning man. Dean stopped just inside, and John brushed by him towards the phone. He grabbed the prescription bottle off the table, and tossed it to Dean without breaking stride. The phone was silenced, throttled in John's grip. "Hello?"

The act of catching the bottle cost Dean, the sudden move sending slivers of darkness into his sight. He closed his eyes, one shoulder bumping into the doorjamb, able to stand only with help from the house's bulk. John's conversation faded into the background as Dean caught his breath, caught the last few wisps of strength in his grasp in order to open his eyes, push away from the doorjamb and take the last few steps to the couch.

"So you've talked to Sam? Is he okay?"

Dean canted his head back over the worn edge of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to John's side of the conversation with CPS. The tinny, tiny sound of the voice on the other end was just audible.

"No, I'll be here." Pause. "Is that what he said?" John's voice, soap slippery, no change except to Dean's ears, a small hitch of uncertainty. "Of course. I'd like to get Sam home as soon as possible." Another pause. "Three will be fine. Okay." The click as the phone was set back in its cradle.

From where Dean sat he could just see the rear end of the Impala in the driveway, the sun glittering on the black and chrome. He did not look up as his father came in the living room, stood at the end of the couch. "Have you taken anything yet?"

"No." Dean's voice brittle and sharp, frost on the Impala's windshield.

The sounds of John's steps back into the kitchen, water running, and then John back out to the living room, and across to Dean. "Drink it, son."

With a shaking hand, Dean popped the top of the bottle, shook a pill into his mouth, and gulped from the glass John handed him. He swallowed, his gaze going back to the small spot of Impala he could see, like a child and a favorite blanket. "What did CPS say?"

"DCFS. They said –" John stopped. "Someone will be here at three to discuss my situation." He moved closer to Dean, leaning down to cup Dean's chin with one hand, raising Dean's face to meet his gaze. "Those stitches could come out."

Dean blinked, processing the sudden change of subject. He raised his hand, brushed the small black knots just under his eye. He had forgotten about the gash on his cheek. "Okay."

And here it was again, comfort and ease and the warm familiarity of his father's body next to his, John's hands sure on his face as the tiny thread was carefully plucked from Dean's cheek. It was nearly unbearable, when Dean could relax into contentment, and open his eyes and still see rage in the back of John's gaze.

And it was John's touch, the physical closeness that caused Dean to speak. "Sam isn't a hunter, Dad."

John's hand stilled briefly, his dark eyes hooded, and then he deftly plucked the last wisp of thread, and set the tweezers down on the coffee table. "He's been hunting for nearly five years, Dean."

"And there's no one I'd rather have at my back. But his – he's – he doesn't -- " Dean was stuttering, fumbling, and he closed his mouth with a snap and met his father's gaze.

A long look between them, unspoken communication that Sam had never been able to achieve, understanding that had been born the night a demon had stood at Sam's crib. John looked away first. "I know."

The door shuddered from a hard knock.

ooooOOoooo

_You'd think an immunity would build up_, was John's thought as he stood, tidied up the first aid kit, and went to the door. Dean stood also, slower, his face already closed up and stone. Mount Rushmore was all weepy and emotional, compared to that face.

Over the years, many people from DCFS, or CPS, or DHS, (the acronyms changed from place to place but always voiced the same intent) had looked at John with serious expressions, serious voices, seriously concerned about his sons. In response John would duck and weave, lie bald-faced and agree to their plans for improvement, always with the same outcome; packing up and heading out, disappearing into the vastness of the open road.

It was a plan of action that was perilously close to becoming routine, considering the number of serious conversations he had with the same/different agencies. He knew the phrases that sounded sincere, he knew which looks turned him from suspect to good; but he still didn't know how to quell the rage and hurt each visit inflicted. It made the inside of his head itch, this idea that someone would dare to think _abuse_ and _neglect_ at him. It made him want to reach behind his brain and just scratch.

_You'd think an immunity would build up_, he thought again, and opened the door.

"John Winchester?" Weaver stood on the porch, dressed in the same shirt and loose tie Sam had seen him in, colorless eyes steady and blank.

"Yeah."

"I'm Brett Weaver, with Division of Child and Family Services."

And for a moment the two men stared at each other, testing the blank expressions worn like helmets, taking the other's measure. The silence was thick.

"Come in," John said, reluctantly,

He watched Weaver step into the room; watch him run up against the stone wall that was Dean's expression. Dean stood at the far edge of the couch, his arms crossed clumsily over his chest. John knew Weaver saw hostility and anger, but John saw the stark fear in the rigid line of Dean's jaw. Weaver was the childhood monster that Dean would never outgrow, the monster that could so easily appear and hurt his family. A monster that no amount of killing could destroy.

"Dad. Can I go see Sam?" The question meant for Weaver, but damned if Dean was going to acknowledge the social worker.

John flicked his gaze to Weaver, who was still staring at Dean expressionlessly. Weaver felt his gaze, the blank eyes rose to meet it, and the man nodded. "I'm sure Sam would love company. I understand he had a rough morning." John saw Dean's lip curl slightly in an involuntary reaction.

"Keys are on the table."

And Dean was gone, his fist tight over the silver of the Impala's keys, only a little wobble in his walk as the door closed behind him. John put his back to Weaver to watch Dean cross the lawn to the car, watch him slide into the Impala gingerly.

"That's your oldest, Dean?" Weaver said behind him, and John's eyes slid to their corners, and he crossed his arms over his chest unconsciously. The couch squeaked slightly as Weaver sat, and John heard the rustle of paper. He glanced out the window again, slightly surprised to see Dean still sitting behind the wheel, his head bent as he looked at something in his hands.

"June sixth. Emergency units respond to a 911 call in Vicksburg, a boy reporting his brother injured in a fight. The paramedics find the brother not breathing, and have to revive him. The ER doc diagnoses the brother with a cracked pelvis, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, a compound fracture of the right arm, and internal bruising of the gastric and reproductive organs due the severity of the crack in the pelvis." Weaver paused, took a breath of air.

John had not moved, his arms still crossed over his chest. He felt curiously light-headed, distant, the only thing anchoring him to here the solidness of the Impala, the Impala's occupant.

"So. That explains Dean. What happened last night with Sam?"

In the car, Dean raised his head from whatever he was looking at, and met his father's gaze through the window. His gaze was feral, predatory, the green shaded into grey. John raised an eyebrow, questioning. In response, Dean held up Sam's notebook.

And the hunter in John, shaken and unsure since the completely fucked up hilarity of the great poltergeist chase, came roaring forward, senses alive. Fierce pride in Sam, putting together the pieces, fierce pride in Dean, hobbled and lame with the eyes of a hawk. And John, walking around half-dead, his confidence gone, filling up with adrenaline and surety and power. The farmer at the hospital, dropping the Impala's keys into his palm, _I've brought your car. _The farmer must have grabbed Sam's things also, and John felt a touch of humor, wondering at the look on the farmer's face upon discovering the contents of Sam's backpack.

John mouthed, _Cannibal Woman?_

Dean nodded, his smile sharp and wild.

"Mr. Winchester? Care to tell me --"

John, the answering smile on his face knife-thin, wiggled his fingers at Dean in a shooing gesture. The Impala roared to life in response, Dean giving it more gas than necessary, the sound like an animal voicing a challenge. Weaver's sentence was drowned in the noise. John watched Dean until the car was out of sight, then turned back to the man on the couch.

"You wanted to know what happened last night?"

Weaver blinked, a sudden wariness in his face. "Yes. Sam mentioned something about a walk?"

John chuckled humorlessly, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, well, you could call it that. Jared down at the honky tonk called me, said Sam was there drinking. By the time I got there, Sam had tried to hightail it for home. I caught him crossing the field."

"I understand." Weaver's eyes narrowed, studying John. "And what did you do, when you caught him?"

John, eager for a fight, reveling in the sudden return of confidence, found himself hard pressed to keep his temper. "What do you mean what did I do? What any father would do, catching his boy out after midnight and drunk – I punished him."

"Which means beating him into a concussion and sprained wrist?"

John's move was abrupt and sudden, quickly began, and quickly aborted. Weaver blinked, leaned back, his gaze going from John's hand, fisted at his side, to John's face. John smiled, his eyes warm and innocent. "I didn't beat Sam."

"So what happened?"

"He tried to run, and fell." John shrugged. "Found an unfortunate place to land. That's when the farmer found us."

Weaver's gaze, blank again, studied John, taking in the open face, the closed fist. He looked down to the file he had spread on the couch next to him, fingered through the loose papers there. "You don't understand, Mr. Winchester, the kind of place this county has been lately. Lots of kids missing, lots of kids hurt. I can't let any suspicious incident involving children go unnoticed." He picked up a paper, John could see the words _Vicksburg Police Department_ in bold across the top. "And with this incident in Vicksburg, Dean beaten, and this screaming argument you apparently had with Sam --" He dropped the paper, raised those colorless eyes to John. "Your sons sure seem to get hurt a lot, Mr. Winchester."

John was silent. There was nothing to say, nothing that would change Weaver's mind.

"I'm going to recommend DCFS take Sam into protective custody. We'll place him in a foster home, and work with you to establish a healthier parenting plan –"

He never saw it coming. One moment John was standing loose and quiet in front of him; the next John had grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him violently to his feet and shoving him across the room to slam up against the wall. The file on the couch was knocked to the floor, scattering paper across the room.

John's lips were pulled back in a snarl, his eyes, once warm and open, now sparking rage into Weaver's face. "You will not take my boy." His voice was quiet, poisonous. "You have no idea what he means –" He paused, his breath coming quick and hard. "You will not destroy this family."

To his credit, Weaver did not back down, though his voice broke before he could articulate his words. "This isn't going to help."

With the suddenness of a striking snake, John punched Weaver hard, beneath his ear. His head slammed back against the wall, the drywall giving with the force of the impact. Weaver's eyelids fluttered and his body went limp, sagging against John's hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

"Well, shit," remarked John.

ooooOOoooo

Walking across the parking lot to the entrance of the hospital, Dean decided it wasn't worth it to stay angry at Sam. If anything, it would piss him off more; Dean was never good at giving Sam a lecture. Too many thoughts of John doing the same thing ruined his own head of steam, besides the fact that one hurt look from Sam melted his anger. Having to endure that look would just make him angrier. Dean snorted at the twisted logic; Sam had a way of warping the world to fit his own needs.

He found Sam sitting cross-legged on his bed, squinting at a book he held in his lap. He looked tired and pensive and pale, and Dean was never so glad to see him.

"Hey, Sammy."

He looked up, and for a moment the two could only look at each other; Dean trying not to wince at the sight of Sam's face purple and yellow and puffy, the gash a line of red across the smooth forehead. Sam noticing Dean's smudged, tired eyes, the thin sheen of sweat coating his face, the tremble in his hands, and trying not to feel guilty.

"Dude, you don't look –"

"Dean, you need to –"

Their sentences overlapped, harmonized for a brief moment, and they both broke off, Dean grinning and Sam chuckling slightly. "Maybe we should try out as extras on _Day of the Dead_." Dean said, limping across the room to sit on the edge of Sam's bed.

"You hate that movie."

"So? Chicks dig movie stars. And black eyes. You're gonna clean up with the nurses." He leaned closer, staring at Sam's face, striving for a light-hearted tone. "Crap, Sam, you look like some sort of mutant raccoon."

Sam grinned, remembering Dean's standard response to such questions. "You should see the other guy."

Dean's grin was brief, and he looked away. "Dad torched the dog bones."

Sam's grin faded. "This is bad."

"Yeah."

"You read my notebook?"

"Just now." The green eyes were shuttered, hiding any reaction to the day's events. The back of Dean's neck was lightly burned from standing in the sun too long.

"Has Dad read it yet?"

"No. He's doing the dance for CPS."

"DCFS."

"Whatever. Same shit, different name."

Sam stared out the window, chewing at his lower lip. Dean picked listlessly at the pattern on the bedspread, his eyes lowered, unwilling to look at his brother.

"She's loose, then."

"Yeah. How do we stop her? Can't salt and burn her."

"I don't think Weaver is gonna let me go home with you guys."

A pause. What had been ruthlessly ignored had been said. A cannon ball through a glass house would have done less damage.

"Weaver's got nothing to do with it. You could six him easy. Sam, do you want to come home?" The green eyes on Sam's face were suddenly full of emotion, too bright for comfort.

It was Sam's turn to stare at the bedspread. He couldn't answer. He didn't know. "You need to find the Flint Man, Dean. I think he could stop her." Sam was desperately waving the red cape.

"Stop it, Sam. I need to know. Do you want to come home?" The sword was dodged. Dean's eyes on Sam's face, turning back on the younger brother the pleading look Sam was so well versed in.

"Of course I do." Sam's long fingers bent the book's spine, nervous and fidgety.

Dean didn't have an answer for that, Sam's reply both a lie and a heart-felt promise at the same time. He crossed his legs at the ankle, tried to fold his cast across his chest. The air conditioner kicked on, filling the room with a small hum and cool air. Dean struggled with himself, wanting to pursue it but without the strength to do so. He sighed, and let it go.

"What's the Flint Man? There's nothing in your notebook except his name."

Sam's eyes glinted, relieved, feeling the usual rush of knowledge, the eagerness to share. "The Flint Man was chosen by the people to approach the god or goddess... I guess whatever god was needed to pray to, you know, like if you needed rain you went to the rain god, or fertility rites, or whatever."

A ribald snort from Dean. "Fertility rites."

Sam rolled his eyes, grinning. "And the Flint Man has to make an offering to the god and make obeisance and the god grants the request."

"Cannibal Woman isn't a god, Sam. How will this stop her?"

"Well, I got this theory..."

Dean groaned.

"Shut up and listen. I found this ritual in this old book at the library, a ritual performed to the goddess of death, Sinda? Sneda? Ah, shit, the name's in the book, you'll have to get the book, it's called _Native American Religions _and it's at the library."

"Breathe, geek boy, you're having a breakdown."

"Anyway, the Flint Man makes an offering to the goddess of death, and if she finds the offering good enough, she'll grant the Flint Man one favor, like a wish I guess. She's like a death genie."

"So you're thinking to raise this death goddess and ask her to take Cannibal Woman?"

"Um." Sam blinked, looked at Dean. "Basically. I don't have any other ideas." He spread his hands.

"Dad wants to take Cannibal Woman down."

"He does?" The pleased look of amazement on Sam's face made Dean's heart thump oddly. "I thought he didn't want to hunt."

That sentence was too close to where Dean did not want to go. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, he changed his mind. Apparently he's back in the game."

"What about you?"

And Dean told himself _don't look, for God's sake don't look at him _but he did anyway, and Sam was watching him with that pleading look turned up 500 watts, a look that begged him to be smart, to be safe. Dean pushed away from the bed impatiently, trying to ignore the constant pain in his hips. "Jesus, Sam, you think I'm stupid? There's not much I could do to help anyway."

"I don't think you're stupid, Dean. I never have."

This time Dean did look at him, green eyes to brown, searching. "And you'll come home?"

And Sam told himself _don't look away, for God's sake don't let him see you lying_ but he did anyway, and tried not to wince as Dean turned on his heel and walked out of the room. "Of course I'll come home," he whispered, but it was too late, and he couldn't convince himself anyway.

ooooOOoooo

Coming in the door, Dean placed a book in John's hands; a large, coffee-table type book titled _Native American Religions,_ and told him to read. John wordlessly pointed out the county library stamp on the book's back, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah," Dean said, setting a bulging paper bag on the table. "Fun story. I'll tell you about it sometime."

Dean emptied the paper bag, placing a pack of cigarettes, a smudge stick of sage and sweet clover, and a bottle of cheap whisky on the table. He ignored John's questioning look, pointed to the book and said, "Read." He began gathering other supplies, adding them to the growing pile on the table.

"I shouldn't have burned the dog bones," John said, coming to the table and setting the book down.

"What can you do," replied Dean, checking the blade of a knife. "You make a mistake, you learn and move on."

John was silent, looking sideways at Dean, the weight of Dean's words hitting him like a sucker punch. "Like taking a nineteen year old hunting a poltergeist."

Dean froze, his eyes flying to his father's face in surprise. "Dad, I –"

"Stow it, Dean. Never mind." He checked the arsenal Dean had collected. "Get some holy water. Just in case. I've gotta run an errand."

"What errand?" Dean, his eyes still too bright from the thing that had almost occurred.

"Dropping Weaver off. Be back in a few."

Dean followed his father to the door, held it open for him and watched John disappear around the side of the house. After a moment, John reappeared; holding Weaver in a fireman's carry, and dumped the social worker in the Impala's back seat. He glanced up and saw Dean standing at the door with his mouth open.

John's mouth quirked with a suppressed smile. "Fun story," he said, deadpan. "I'll tell you about it sometime."

John dumped Weaver, arms handcuffed behind his back, in the barn north of town that he had found earlier, when he had salted and burned the dog bones. By then Weaver was awake, watching John with those unwavering empty eyes. Both men were silent as John took another pair of handcuffs and secured Weaver to a sturdy beam in the barn, and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, remembering the bulletin board in the library, the dozens of missing children. The thought spurred him into turning back. "I'll call and let them know where you are tomorrow night, when we're gone."

Weaver said nothing, and John left with barely a second thought.

He returned to the house not more than thirty minutes later, left the Chevy running as he sprinted inside. It was close to sundown, and for the ritual John needed sunlight. Inside he found Dean on the couch, slumped down with his head on the arm, eyes closed. "Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes, and slowly came to a sitting position. "Everything's ready, Dad. The duffle on the table."

"Goddamnit, Dean." John went to the couch, found Dean's painkillers on the coffee table, and the half-empty glass of water from lunch. "They tell you to take these things every four hours for a reason." He watched as Dean popped a couple of pills, swigged down the stale water with a grimace. "Soon as I'm gone, fix yourself a hamburger and get some sleep. Got it?"

"Wait. You're going?"

John looked at him blankly. "Of course."

"But this goddess of death only listens to the Flint Man."

John looked away. "The book says the Flint Man is in the tribe, but not of the tribe. Sound familiar?" His eyes were distant, his focus inward, on something that had occurred years ago.

Dean nodded slowly, still not quite understanding, but as John took a step toward the table, touched him on the arm. John stopped, glanced down at him. "Dad. Be careful, okay? She's not gonna kill you, but just watch it, okay?"

John smiled. "I'll be fine." The gleam in his eye was anticipation, and turned the smile into a promise of violence.

He decided the closest place to holy for a Native American ritual was near where the burial mound had been. He didn't like being so close to the Samaritan farmer's place, but when he slowed the Impala down just past the honky tonk, saw a rather large grove of trees off the right. It would be large enough to hide him from prying eyes. He just hoped that the goddess of death wouldn't be too noisy.

John backtracked to the honky tonk, parked the Impala near the back, grabbed up the duffle and began to jog up the road to the place he had marked for the ritual. He skirted the farmer's place warily, scanning the place for any sign of life, seeing only an old dog asleep on the porch, the gravel drive empty. Felt better only when he entered the grove of trees, the trunks quickly blocking out the house.

Sun dappled his shoulders and face as he moved quietly to the center of the grove where he found a small clearing about two paces wide. He dropped the duffle, opened it and quickly set up a make-shift altar, using the first aid kit and a bandana of Dean's, not quite able to hide the red and black Def Leppard logo printed on it.

He opened the library book, set it on the ground below the altar, and began the ritual.

Sage smoke first. He lit the smudge stick, watched it burn in the cereal bowl Dean had scrounged up. It caught easily, and soon the fragrant smoke hung in the humid air. He checked the book, read the words of the first stanza out loud.

Pause. A quick scan of his surroundings, checking for signs.

Whisky next. The golden liquid seemed to glow in the leaf-tinted light. He opened it, took a quick swig, wincing at the burn. Then, carefully, a small measure spilled into the dust at his feet. The bottle set on the altar next to the smudge stick, and John read the next stanza of the ritual, his voice sure and clear.

Another check of the grove, the trees still in the early evening air.

Cigarettes last. He shook the pack into his hand, set aside two on the altar, and tore those remaining into shreds. The remains went into another cereal bowl, covering Count Chocula's grinning face. He lit one of those left, took several drags, and lit the last one off of the glowing cherry. Balanced both carefully on the altar, their tips hanging off the edge. Then read the final stanza.

There was an odd sort of wrinkle in the air suddenly, as if a heat ripple rising off of blacktop had become a sound, as if a sonic boom had suddenly become visible. John blinked at the force of the sound/sight, unsure of what had occurred. The smoke raising lazily from the smudge stick bent slightly at the top, trailing in an undetectable breeze. John frowned at the sight, the frown deepening as the smoke abruptly formed a loop-de-loop in the still air.

"You make a face like that, it'll freeze that way."

John turned, forcing his body to move slowly, instinct making him push away the sudden start and fear that rose in his belly at the inhuman accent in the voice behind him.

A boy about Sam's age stood in front of him, tall and gangly, with a bit of breadth to his chest that put John more in mind of Dean's solidness. His hair was long, a straight sheet of blackness falling from a razor straight part, the face thin with a large, beak-like nose. His eyes were dark, not the oil slickness of one possessed, but black and deep. He was clad simply in a light shirt and twill pants, and he was watching John with amusement.

"Are you Sedna?"

The boy's eyes widened in surprise, and he let out a sudden guffaw of laughter. "Oh, shit, no! Sedna's been dead for decades now. I'm Raven."

John was at a lost, fumbling for a way out of the sudden mess he was in – facing a god unsummoned and unprotected. He said the first thing that came to mind. "I was summoning Sedna."

"Only the Flint Man can summon Sedna." The answer was immediate, and derogatory.

"I am the Flint Man," tried John.

Again the guffaw of laughter, harsh and coarse, like the call of a bird. "If you're the Flint Man, I'm Rick Allen." At John's lack of response, he gestured to the altar, a bit of the Def Leppard logo visible. "I'm keeping with the theme you've got going. Ask Dean, when you can."

So far, so good. In that John was still standing, wasn't ripped apart or hurt or soul sucked. That was always good. He pushed his luck, brushing aside Raven's distraction, the name of his son on the god's lips. "I want you to take Cannibal Woman."

"Wow, John, aren't you demanding." One thin, pale hand went to Raven's head, scratched at his hairline. "I can't take Cannibal Woman, only Sedna can do that."

"That's why I summoned her." Pushing more, a light emphasis on the last word, John's eyes steady on the boy's – god's – face. "I wanted her."

The boy's amusement abruptly faded, rage lighting his eyes. "Well, you can't have her!" His arms were flung wide in response to his emotion, and John, for a moment, remembered ketchup squirting across dead grass. "She's dead! The Kachinas are dead, even fucking Eototo is dead! It's been too long! And me?" His long arms came in, his fingertips tapping his chest, his tone suddenly reflective. "I'll be gone, too, soon."

"But Cannibal Woman is still here. She's taking kids. How long will she be around?"

"Salt and burn?" Raven looked slightly interested, his rage immediately gone.

John swallowed his surprise, keeping firm rein on a mind that already wanted to bolt. "Don't have all her bones." He spread his hands, gestured to the altar behind him. "That's why I wanted Sedna, to take her."

Raven's interest turned to mild surprise. "Wow. I didn't think anyone would have thought of that." His thumb went to his mouth, chewing a cuticle, the move so Sam-like John blinked rapidly. "That would have done it. Sedna would have taken her." His eyes, bird-sharp, flicked to John. "What were you going to offer?"

John gestured to the altar again. "Sage. Tobacco. Whisky."

Raven crossed the small clearing to the altar, leaned into the thin column of smoke from the smudge stick. The smoke responded to his presence, looping and writhing like a cut earthworm. Raven breathed in the whorls deeply, his eyes closed in rapture. He found the lit cigarette, brought it to his lips in a long drag, the smoke blown out his nostrils. A quick slug from the open bottle, Raven's throat working. "Shit, that's good!" His eyes were watering as he turned back to John expectantly. "What else?"

John watched Raven with narrowed eyes, noting the god had accepted his offer – sage, tobacco, and whisky, just as he had enumerated them. Raven met his gaze, a thin eyebrow raised. John shrugged, remembering the ritual. "Sedna demanded blood."

This time Raven laughed for a good minute, his head back, the black sheet of his hair trembling from his effort. When he subsided, he gazed at John almost fondly. "Oh, yeah, you would have been a great Flint Man. All sacrifice and duty, without a thought for tribe or family."

John was silent, his mouth thin with the effort.

Raven turned, took the two spaces to the edge of the clearing, then back. His face was sober, considering. "I'm too old for blood, John. Too old and tired. Doing what you demand would hasten my death substantially. The offering has to be good."

"So you're accepting it, you're willing to be bound by it."

"Depends on what you have on follow-up."

"If you're talking sacrifice –"

Raven was laughing again, one hand up in negation. "Oh, fuck yeah, you're so ready, aren't you. Sometimes the most onerous duty is the one that doesn't let you out in a blaze of glory." He moved towards John, one hand touching him lightly on the chest, the narrow face slightly disapproving. "I don't want your life, either, old man."

"What do you want?"

"This."

Raven's hand, still touching his chest, and suddenly the memory of Sam on the dead lawn with a ripple of red at his feet filled John's mind. The memory solid and real, like it happened seconds ago, the scent of the summer night in his nose, the feel of humidity on his cheek, the absolute rage at Sam, the absolute rage and love and fear and….so much in his mind, too much, he couldn't, he couldn't….

John took a breath, gasping, stumbling away from the cold tips of the god's fingers, a shaking hand flung out for balance. "What…" A huge gasp shuddered his shoulders. "What was that?"

"What I demand." Raven's voice was deeper, more present, and John glanced up at him. The god had aged, had fled the gangly phase and entered more into young man, his shoulders wider, his chest deeper. He looked more Dean's age, now, perhaps older. "I feed off the emotion associated with such memories. Give me enough and I'll have the strength to take Cannibal Woman."

"Give you… memories?" John's equilibrium had tentatively returned, and he straightened cautiously, watching the god.

"Only what you give me. But the more emotion behind them, the more strength I receive." Raven crossed his arms over his chest, looking at John greedily. "Give me, and I take."

Early evening. John glanced casually at the sky, the subtle shift in the blue to a more indigo as the sun began its descent. This morning seemed years away, this morning when Sam had been in the dirt with his head on John's thigh, bleeding. "How much do you need to take?"

Raven shrugged. "Don't know." His need was plain on his face. "I'll know when I'm done."

Tricky. Gods could be insatiable, saying when only after decades of taking. John rubbed his face, wincing at the rasp of stubble against his fingers. "And you'll take only what I offer?"

Sensing agreement, Raven dropped his arms, his face greedy and innocent like a hungry infant's. "Only what you offer." His voice a whisper.

"Then take this."

He remembered chasing Dean and the poltergeist through the barn, John closing his eyes, and suddenly the god was taking, a pressure like a cotton swab inserted into his ear too far, an intrusion into his brain. And the memory wasn't a memory anymore, was happening….

Dean's short, bit-off cry as he was dropped from the hayloft, his green eyes wide and ringed with white, looking up at his father, searching for help. The sun shining through the empty slots of the barn's side, checkerboard across his son's body. The cool metal of the sawed-off in his hand, the creak of floorboards beneath his feet. John was John, was Dean, was the chaff floating in the air, was _ dimly _ the poltergeist, was every sensation his body had felt that day, all a conduit for the god's bottomless hunger.

And as Raven took, taking the emotions of fear and love and frustration from the memory, the sudden overload of sensation began to drain away, like color graying from a picture. The memory faded, faded, a last gleam of light from Dean's hair, and … gone.

"More," said Raven, his eyes blank, his tongue touching the corner of his mouth.

John remembered Sam bringing him a picture from kindergarten. Again, the sudden there-ness thrust into his brain, the overload of sensation from the colors of the finger paint to the coolness of the fridge magnet in his hands. Feeling a soft sort of pride, a weariness and despair that Sam would place so much into a picture. Again, the slow drain, the colors graying to nothing, a last flash of primary red, and … gone.

The sun set, rays bouncing into the darkening sky like a disco ball catching light. The peace of a summer evening spread through the small copse of trees.

"More," said Raven.

John remembered the first time he had hunted with Elkins.

"More."

John remembered a firefight in the jungle.

"More."

John remembered seeing Sam for the first time.

"More."

John remembered first touching Mary's breast.

"More, oh fuck, MORE!"

John remembered.

ooooOOoooo

Dean was pushed abruptly out of sleep by the sharp sound of a door slamming. He sat up quickly, wincing at the movement, one hand going to his chest. The room was dark, full of shadows and contrast of stark white from a lamp post leaking through the blinds. Dean stilled his breath, listening.

In the living room came the quiet brush of bare feet on the threadbare carpet.

Dean swung his legs to the floor, pushing himself to the edge of the bed, quiet, quiet, softly putting his weight on the balls of his feet and standing.

Something in the living room fell to the floor, rattling. Dean recognized the sound of the prescription bottle. He went to the closed door of his bedroom, his hand curling around the knob, twisting carefully, releasing the catch without a click of noise.

A low groan, the sound inhuman and chilling.

He pulled the door open slowly, peering through the widening gap into the dark living room. The soft gleam as metallic surfaces caught the light from outside. The humming of crickets and heat, the smell of the hamburger he had fried for dinner heavy in the air.

A vaguely human form stood stock still in the middle of the living room, between the couch and the TV, turned in Dean's direction. A sound of liquid dripping, constant and thick, hitting the carpet.

Dean took a short step into the hallway, his broken pelvis a ball of pain and heat in his stomach. The form reacted to his movement, one arm raising towards him. A sound, slurred and almost a word, and shit, did the thing just call his name?

There was nowhere for him to go except forward, remembering the piece of broken railing from the porch that had somehow ended up propped against the wall just inside the living room. Dean couldn't place where any other weapons could be, his mind seizing on the relative nearness of the piece of wood. He moved forward quickly, ruthlessly ignoring the pain from pelvis, ribs and arm.

The thing responded to his movements by shuffling forward, one arm still raised. Her legs hit the couch, and she stepped back, then forward again, and abruptly she was past the couch, suddenly that much closer to Dean. The sharp smell of sage filled the room, drowning out hamburger and mustiness.

Dean's fingers found the piece of wood, caught it up as he stepped fully into the living room. On the wall, spot lit by a stray beam from the outside porch light, was the light switch. Dean flicked it on with the edge of the railing.

At one time, Dean recognized that the thing standing in his living room had been a woman; her hair was still long and full, shiny, with blue highlights in the shadows. That was all left of her beauty. Her breasts were gone, sliced off cleanly, her nose also, surprisingly neat slabs of flesh cut from her haunches and upper thighs. The steady sound of dripping was the blood, blood running ceaselessly from the cuts she had inflicted on herself.

Dean found himself shrinking away; found himself nearly sitting on his haunches in his instinctual rejection of the monstrosity in front of him. Cannibal Woman dropped her outstretched arm, brought the fingerless hand up to her mouth, and Dean made a small sound as a pink tongue coyly licked the blood pooled in her palm. Her hair swirled with her movements, silken and beautiful.

"There you are."

A man stood in the open door to the house, and with the first sound of his voice Dean thought his father had returned. But the man standing there, like his father in so many ways, was a stranger. Straight sheets of black hair fell from a razor straight part. The man was older, perhaps older than John, with a smattering of silver threads amongst the black, dressed in a light shirt and twill pants. His eyes were dark, deep, and moved with amusement as he watched Cannibal Woman.

"Time to go, bitch. No one wants us anymore."

Cannibal Woman groaned, and shit, was she calling Dean's name again?

"Nope, gonna say no to that. We gotta go." The man stepped forward, age and inhumanity and power sparking off him like iron on flint.

A sudden flash from outside, followed by a sky-cracking clap of thunder. A smell of rain drifted in the open door.

The man glanced over his shoulder out the door. "Oh, yeah, definitely time to go." He crossed to Cannibal Woman, ignoring the gore and blood, and picked her up easily, cradled her like she was an infant. The beautiful hair swung like a bride's. The man smiled into her mutilated face, tender. "And. Here. We. Go."

There was an odd wrinkle in the heavy air, like a ripple of heat made into sound, or a sonic boom made into taste. Dean rocked back from the force of the sound/taste, losing his balance and dropping to his butt with a pained grunt.

Another crack of thunder from outside, the flashing of lightning almost constant, like flashbulbs popping at the Superbowl. The smell of rain was overpowering.

"Dean?"

John stood in the doorway, backlit by the constant lightning. He looked tired and drained, one hand clutching the doorjamb.

"Yeah, Dad…."

His father quickly crossed to him, bending and hauling him to his feet roughly. Dean grunted from the sudden pain, John's hands grabbing his arm, his side brutally. "Easy, easy," he hissed, pushing at John's shoulder in an attempt to move away from his father's too-casual touch. Together they crossed to the couch, and John was gentler helping him to sit.

"Sorry. I forgot… your arm's broke?" John's face just inches from his own, searching his face. "You okay?"

Dean blinked under the sharp regard. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Um, personal space, dude."

John backed away, standing at the far edge of the couch, his gaze never wavering from Dean's face. "You broke your arm?"

Dean, uneasy, became angry. "Yeah, remember the poltergeist?" He waved his splinted arm in the air, ignoring the pain. "The barn?"

Thunder roared through the silence, and abruptly the world was filled with the sound of rain.

"Yeah," said John softly. "I remember."

ooooOOoooo

At the first sound of thunder, Sam had swung out of bed and gone to the window, stood in the darkened room and watched the storm sweep across the farmland towards the small town. Stars were quickly swallowed by storm clouds, and lightning flashed in the hollows and curves of the billowing thunderheads. His hair was tousled into curlicues and twists, took years off his age until he seemed barely ten.

Now, rain ran in heavy rivulets across the glass of the hospital window, the light from the hospital's courtyard casting wavy shadows across Sam's face. He gnawed absently at a fingernail, worrying about Dean, wondering what his father had done to destroy Cannibal Woman, wondering if somehow, the gone kids had magically reappeared, happy and whole, in their beds.

Somehow, he doubted it. There was a miracle in the sudden downpour, but also violence. Seedlings could be swept away in the force of the flood, things unable to breathe the sudden influx of water, smothered in the miracle.

Dean had asked him _Do you want to come home?_

He still didn't know.

Every little brother gathers an arsenal with which to do battle with his family. Sam was tired of the fight, tired of his instinctual reach for the sword when his father frowned at him, when Dean told him to wait in the car. He wanted to halt the battle, wanted to wave the white flag and perhaps, at last, have peace.

In halting the battle he would be destroyed as John continued fighting. In waving the white flag he would be run down by Dean's constant cavalry coming to the rescue.

He was tired, his head throbbing with the rifle shots of thunder from the storm, the storm of emotion inside his own mind. He padded back to his bed, sliding into the cool covers, reaching for sleep.

ooooOOoooo

Morning.

Fresh and clean, like a pair of favorite jeans from the wash, smelling of a day given over to games of catch, picnics, watching fireworks. For the first time in years, a haze of green hung over the small town, trees perked by the sudden downpour reaching for the soft light from a subdued sun. A few trees blown down, a car crumpled, a fence destroyed. A small price for the clean glory of the morning, heat gone, a soft breeze rustling the flag at the county library.

Dean stood at the line where lawn met blacktop.

Sam had told him _Of course I do_.

Both a lie and a promise. The contradiction that made up his world. Lie and promise. Rage and comfort. Dean still did not want to find the truth, because in finding the truth he would lose the core of his family. In choosing comfort he would lose Sam on the dead lawn, arms wide with the violence of his convictions. In choosing promise he would lose Sam wanting so much more than seedy motels and unrewarded hunts.

Rage and comfort.

Sam turned the corner for home, his shadow stretching out behind his long form as he walked steadily towards Dean.

Promise and lie.


End file.
